sic transit gloria
by fall from stars
Summary: CHAPTERED—Thus passes the glory.  ClarkxLois, and not; AU inspired by 10x10, Luthor. See author's note for more details. Currently: Chapter VIII.
1. Part I

**Author's note:** It's been a long,_ long_ time, hasn't it? I'd say it's good to be back, but then again, I also start student teaching next semester and I don't want to make any empty promises. So because I have a deep-seated hatred for the DC reboot's current handling of my darling Lois, and I also happen to like the concept behind the Smallville episode _Luthor_, this little fic was born after a playlist full of songs that would completely embarrass me were I tell you what they were.

I tweaked and changed a few things about this alternate Earth; while Clark Luthor was nonetheless an interesting study about what growing up Luthor is like, I was more interested in how Clark would still maintain a distinct part of his personality while wrestling with the Luthorian ideals Lionel would have taught him. I also renamed him Marcus because I feel like Clark is a distinctly Kent-like name to give him. The rest of the changes are small, and probably don't require any further explanation. Thank you in advance for your constructive feedback!

**In America, the President reigns for four years, and journalism governs forever and ever.**

Oscar Wilde

**sic transit gloria  
>chapter one<strong>

The day it gets out that LuthorCorp has finalized its purchase of the _Daily Planet_, all of Lois Lane's journalism classmates are in distress. Many of them had pre-determined internships there, but now they can't drop them fast enough. Most of them are now headed to once "second-best" Gotham or Star City, with a few deciding that maybe even an obscure paper like Smallville's _Daily Ledger_ is a better start than entering a Luthor takeover headfirst. Going to the _Planet_ isn't a guarantee of journalistic excellence now; it's a suicide move, and they all nod like so many sheep. It's almost boring Lois to tears.

"Hub City's little papers may be smaller," a classmate named Vic tells her when she asks for his justification, "but at least it's not a LuthorCorp puppet. I'd rather have my freedom than nothing at all." His face is almost unreadable.

Lois is the only one who views the merger as a challenge, not an obstacle. "I could make the _Planet_ work for me," she says, and is granted laughs and sniggers in response. There goes Lane again, some of them whisper. God, she never knows when to let up. She ignores them, reminding herself that she'll be laughing once she gets her first Pulitzer before the lot of them.

"It'd be easier to stay outside the corporation, and write damning things about them," she admits. "And maybe people like being safe. But Metropolis is where I'm going to go. I'm going to fight the beast from the inside."

"Good luck on ya, Lane!" calls a boy whose name she's never caught but who she remembers as writing boring, off-white articles. She's hopeful for a bit, but then her face falls when he adds: "Will you send me a postcard from six feet under?" The entire class laughs; Lois even sees a bit of a smile from her professor, who was supposed to defend her, who wrote the damn letter of reccommendation for her position at the _Planet_ anyway.

She informs her classmate that he'll be lucky if he lasts in Gotham for a week, especially since she's heard the Joker's loose again, but eventually she decides to back down and refrain from telling her class the other reason she's going to Metropolis.

Even if it costs her her life, she _is_ going to be the first journalist to interview the unexpected vigilante, the blurred shadow, the "white knight" who isn't.

The hero people call Ultraman.

* * *

><p>The whispers about how she's going to end up dead at the bottom of the river nearby Metropolis haunt her throughout her arrangements with the <em>Planet<em>, and before she knows it, it's Lionel's adopted son Marcus on the other end of the line. While Lex Luthor, Marcus' brother and Lionel's trueborn son, was groomed to eventually seize control of LuthorCorp, Marcus, who has always been a meandering sort, has been installed as the head of the _Daily Planet_.

Some articles say Marcus' degree in journalism and his own service with the _New York Times _and _San Francisco Chronicle _more than qualify him for the job, and express optimism that Marcus will be more than a puppet. Other articles insist the major in journalism was a "dabbling" into a discipline, and that the jobs he got were given as gifts from his father. Lois decides that she had best choose a side in case he asks her that kind of a question, but before she can say anything, Marcus has a few words for her.

"I understand that you attended the Kahn School of Journalism at Metropolis University," he says, papers rustling on the other end of the line. She assumes he's examining her résumé, but he's a Luthor. Those papers could say anything, _do_ anything.

"Yes, sir," she says in a practiced, winning voice that hides her nervousness with enthusiasm, "I'm due to graduate magna cum laude in two weeks with-"

"With an emphasis in investigative journalism and a position as the main editor of your university newspaper. Yes, I'm aware, Miss Lane." She bites her lip nervously as he says her name. She's never felt this way when someone's said her name like that; why should it be any different with him? "_But_ are you aware of the fact that nearly everyone of your graduating class who has received a job offer has turned down positions with the _Planet_?"

Oh, God. It's a trap, but not one she had been expecting, not one she had an answer to. She supposes the truth might be the best policy. "I heard some people in my ethics class talking," she admits, "but I just figured they were all intimidated-"

He laughs. It is not chilling, the way she expects a Luthor's laugh to be, but instead is only lined with a dark edge, a reminder of who raised him. "Now that's a word I haven't thought of yet. 'Intimidated.'" The laugh becomes a low chuckle. "Miss Lane, your reputation precedes you. I have heard enough about you to know who you are."

"And who am I?" Another trap, she realizes, but the return call from Star City she still thinks she's getting has made her brave. Her former classmates would never let her live it down. Where's Ultraman, Lane? they would say as they would force her to make their coffee. Thought we were going to hear you solved the mystery. Where's the Pulitzer? Do you come when Marcus calls? "Come here, Lane, sit, stay."

"You're not intimidated by my father's name, to borrow your word," Marcus begins, more papers rustling. "You've taken on quite a few editorials in your portfolio, not all of them conventional." She imagines him poring over her portfolio, looking at all the words that subtly damn men like his brother and his father. "But your writing is clear, concise. The kind people want to read, even if they don't read often."

"Thank you, sir," she says, honestly taken aback. She wonders if Luthors ever compliment people this much. Probably not, she thinks. It's strange, thinking of the three men in the mansion, Lionel and Alexander and Marcus, all of them tall and terrible, all of them feared and unknown.

"You said you weren't intimidated by my name," he continues, clearing his throat. "What is it that you fear then, Miss Lane?"

She purses her lips. This entire damn interview is the most excruciating thing of her life. She wonders whether Marcus realizes that most interviews involve her writing experience, what she hopes to gain from her career, the usual. But she was the one who looked for the unusual, and unusual is what she's getting.

She has her answer faster than she thought she would. "The only thing I fear is not knowing things," she admits, and it doesn't feel like a lie. "I'm terrified of the story I don't _know_ that I don't know."

The pause goes on for longer than a minute. For a few seconds, she feels like she might die.

"Monday morning, then, 8 AM, the basement," he says briskly. She remembers how to breathe. "You'll be desk partners with Catherine Grant; I'll forward her contact information to you. And, Miss Lane?"

"Yes?"

"Welcome to the _Planet_."

"...thank you, sir." The phone is suddenly very heavy in her hands. "I'll see you next Monday."

After he hangs up, Lois paces her apartment for the next several hours, considering and throwing away outfit ideas, practicing her smile, and reviewing the notes she had taken about ethics and writing style and how to advance quickly through the ranks of newspapermen. But her mind keeps coming back to Marcus Luthor, to the man who has said her name in a way nobody has before, a man her father has warned her against, a man who now holds all of her potential in the palm of his hand.

She looks at pictures of him in magazines and newspapers, standing like a stoic soldier next to his brother and father. She supposes he is attractive in his own way, a Greek statue with life breathed into it, but there is a darkness in his eyes she can't ignore, something she can see even through low resolution pictures on Google.

She can't understand any of it. She's gotten what she's wanted: a chance to fight the beast, a chance to do everything she's said she wanted to do, a chance to do everything her classmates are too scared to do.

So why is it only now that she realizes she may be in over her head?


	2. Part II

**Author's Note:** My sincere gratitude to those who have given me feedback on this story, and also to Michael, for betaing my Luthor men and making them sound like they know what they're doing.

**The freedom of the press works in such a way that there is not much freedom from it.**

**Grace Kelly**

**sic transit gloria**  
><strong>chapter two<strong>

She shows up to the _Planet _at 7:30 with black coffee and a maple donut, taking the light rail that weaves throughout Metropolis' heart. It sits at 1000 Broadway, newly covered with a silver sheen that Marcus must have wanted, and the revolving globe reminds her that this is where she belongs._ _They can keep their Gazettes and their Stars, __she thinks dismissively, knowing that her classmates are all at least a hundred miles away. ___I have the Planet, the way I had always hoped I would.___

The basement is a tangle of people and phone lines, computers and clicking, and she's almost knocked over a few times on the journey to her desk. Across the way is _Catherine Grant, _as identified by her deskplate, a prim blonde in pink with a picture of a small blond boy in a silver frame. Lois extends her hand over to the girl, who looks up at her hand as if Lois has just declared war on her.

"Hi, my name's Lois Lane," she says anyway, trying to put a smile on her face that's genuine. "This is my first day here, and—"

"You're a big girl, Lois," Catherine says dismissively, not even giving her the benefit of telling Lois her own name or a smile. "You can show yourself around."

"Well, so much for camaraderie," Lois grumbles to herself, earning a glare from the ice queen across the way. Lois holds up her hands in mock surrender, and decides that until someone tells her to go out into town and do something, she could take a look around and see just what makes the_ Planet_ tick.

She assesses the building floor by floor, digging through archives to see what past editors thought was worth saving. But she notices something peculiar, something that puts fear into her stomach: a lot of the formerly damning Luthor files that used to be in the online archives too have disappeared, without explanation, without notice. If any of the _Planet_ employees have noticed, they certainly haven't spoken up. For a split second she worries that she has already failed before she has begun, that she'll have to come back to Gotham or Star City with her pride all bruised—

"Hey, new girl," comes a voice suddenly, and Lois whirls around to see a sharply dressed man a few years her senior holding a coffee cup and a hefty stack of their competing papers, a list of chronicles upon stars upon gazettes. He shoves them into her hands. "Here, why don't you be a dear and go take this to Mr. Luthor?"

"But I—"

_...don't know where his office is._

He's gone before she can even finish her sentence. She sighs heavily. She was wondering how long she could have avoided seeing Marcus, how long she could have had to prepare herself for the note of darkness in his otherwise light eyes. But she has no choice now, and so she goes into the elevators that are still the old gold of the _Planet-_as-it-was, after reading that the office of_ _Luthor, Marcus __is located on the top floor in room 12B. By the time she arrives, the coffee is lukewarm at best and the papers are wrinkled, but she prays desperately that he doesn't pay a second thought to her.

She passes his secretary, a stunningly beautiful woman with long typist's fingers who waves Lois in after looking at her through the side of her eye, and after knocking the door open with her foot, she comes across Marcus still in a phone call.

"—help the people of Metropolis understand Wayne Enterprises better," Marcus is saying, looking fiercely determined. He is dressed to the nines, and his shirt alone probably costs more than what Lois will be making in a week. But his tie is loose, his vest unbuttoned. From the looks of it, he's been on the phone a long time, even if the_ Planet_ barely opened for normal business hours a few minutes ago.

Lois treads carefully through the room, balancing her stars and gazettes, ready to apologize for disturbing Mr. Luthor's office if need be. His voice is getting louder, and for a second, she stands completely still.

"I_ insist _that I speak to Mr. Wayne," Marcus says forcefully. "I'm aware that he thinks five AM is an acceptable time of night to go to sleep, but—" He slams down the receiver with disgust after realizing he's been disconnected. "That Bruce always knows how to pass me along," he murmurs sullenly.

He looks up then, and notices her. They stare at each other for a while, her with his morning routine in her hands and he with her future in his. It's a thought that worries Lois, so she decides to speak over her worry.

"Your coffee and papers, Mr. Luthor," she says, not too cheerily so he doesn't think she's acting. She distributes the papers in alphabetical order and places his coffee by his hand, aware of his eyes on her. She gives him a smile and then starts to leave the room. _That wasn't too bad, _she thinks,_ _and in the sunlight his eyes aren't as—__

"Wait." She freezes, closing her eyes and taking a breath. She turns around and asks if there's anything else she can get for him.

"You're...Lois, aren't you?" he asks. "Lois Lane?"

"Guilty as charged," she quips, flashing her press pass at him, but realizes a second too late that, given both his father and brother's close run-ins with the law, it wasn't the best quip to choose. She laughs apologetically. "Why, can I help you?"

He studies her. "You sounded like you were a blonde on the phone."

Lois is offended, but only for a split second. She smiles instead. "I've always been a brunette, sir."

He nods, and gives her one last up-down glance before clearing his throat. "I have an assignment for you, Lane."

Her first assignment! Straight from the editor-in-chief himself. Lois wonders how many of her cowardly classmates can say _that._

"My brother is insistent that despite LuthorCorp's presence, the _Planet_ still retains its neutrality," Marcus explains, sorting through his papers to find a debriefing for her, "and so you're going to the convention center downtown where Wayne Enterprises has brought a new prototype for a tank to be used in Afghanistan. They claim to have completed new research to help the tank adjust to fluctuating temperatures."

This sounds like a really big assignment. Lois' eyes go wide as saucers as she takes the paper from him. "Are you serious?"

Marcus only laughs. "Do you feel like the dog-and-pony show in Smallville would be a better assignment for you, Miss Lane?"

"No!" Lois' voice is full of terror of being regulated to something barely above obituaries.

"Then go," he says, waving his hand away. "Do your job the way you told me you would, and the front page is yours."

Lois can scarcely believe her luck. "W-why me, sir?" she asks, even as her brain is screaming that she shouldn't test him like this. "Shouldn't you be sending—well, someone else?"

"Everyone has to be tested," Marcus says, with a nonchalance that reminds her of the way his father acts in interviews. He is a Luthor, bred if not born, but beneath all the Excelsior Academy posture and grammar, there's something—else. She is trying to determine what it is when he turns to look at her. "Well, don't just stand there. _Go!_ Write me something brilliant."

Lois smiles despite herself, despite everything.

"Yes, sir."

* * *

><p>Later, she'll remember enough about the prototype to write the basics down for a half-page article. There was some new "whisking" technology that took heat and let it run right down the side of the tank to help keep the tank cool and prevent heat exhaustion; Lois even got to step inside the tank for a bit. The interior of the tank was twenty-five degrees cooler than the outside air, just as promised, but it reminded her of her father in more ways than one, so she had to step out just as quickly. What happened next was anyone's guess.<p>

Some witnesses said that the tank itself malfunctioned, shooting out a ricochet of gunfire that later caught the convention center's curtains on fire. Others insisted that the heat lamp, used to represent the humid sun for the sake of the demonstration, had overheated and stared melting the tank itself.

All Lois knew was that there was suddenly fire where there hadn't been any, and someone ran hard into her leg, in a mad dash to get out of the building. Her progress was impeded, and she was reduced to crawling as the smoke came up high around her.

And then she felt—arms. Someone's arms. They were strong, and warm, and—safe, and taking her out of the smoke into the blinding sunlight.

"Are you okay?" came a voice, a very familiar one, but she couldn't quite peg _who_ it was, or—where they had even _come from_, but she did hear a word that stuck with her, an exclamation of "Ultraman!"

And then she was gone.

* * *

><p><em>Ultraman!<em>

She sits up straight in a hospital bed, the word still on her lips. A nurse nearby tells her she needs to calm herself, but Lois is too busy scanning the room for—

"My laptop!" she exclaims, breath fogging up over her breathing mask, reaching a needled arm out. "Please, I need to write my article."

"Miss Lane," the nurse insists while picking it up anyway, quiet white shoes shuffling, "you're in no condition to be—"

"You try working for a Luthor," Lois snaps, yanking the laptop from her nurse's arms, who leaves in quiet defeat. Within the hour, she has emailed Marcus Luthor two articles: one on the potential of the Wayne technology, and another one, an editorial on Ultraman's heroics that day. She thinks about merging them together, but she is not so brave yet.

She attaches them and types in: "Hope a lot of secondhand witnesses are all right. If it wasn't for Ultraman, I'd be a goner."

What she doesn't say is that she's included an explicit accusation against LuthorCorp in there. Wayne Enterprises wouldn't be so sloppy in an exhibition outside of Gotham, so she sees no other explanation for the fire than sabotage.

She hopes he's in a good mood. She hopes he remembers that she's still in the hospital, on her first day of all things. She hopes she's been charming enough to consider keeping her, even after the mess she's made of everything. For a while, her heart sinks as she thinks of Star City on the water, and how she could call that home if she's unlucky.

Marcus' reply says: "Looks good, Miss Lane. Edit out the accusation, and I _could _run it on page 3. You did better than most. Now rest, and get well soon."

_Page 3? _Lois is exasperated for a split second. Part of her wants to e-mail Marcus back, demand page 1 because she at least deserves that much for almost dying, for Christ's sake, but she decides not to push her luck. She could have been on that dog-and-pony show, after all. She wouldn't be in a hospital room if she had written that assignment, but where was the excitement in that?

She's just sent off her edited article when blood-red roses arrive at her bedside. The accompanying note gives her "_compliments on a job well done, from Marcus." _She smiles. For today, at least, she still works for the _Planet_.

For today, at least, it was worth it to almost die for a story. 

* * *

><p>Back at the <em>Planet, <em>Marcus Luthor's private line is suddenly part of the public domain. A thousand different reporters have all asked him to contact Lex for them, and after a while, he has to rip the phone out of the wall just to get some peace and quiet. He's nursing a single malt scotch, a drink that reminds him of his father, when the man in question suddenly enters his office.

"I warned you about that girl, didn't I, son? And now you are suffering for your _gallantry." _The last word is said with a particular distaste, as if Lionel expected Marcus to leave Lois in the fire.

Marcus stares at his father with surprise at first, and then narrows his eyes. "Dad. Welcome to _my_ office. Please, make yourself at home."

"No need for sarcasm, Marcus," Lionel says casually, with a condescending smirk. He starts pacing around Marcus' office in a way that suggests that his son ought to reconsider how much power he truly has here. "I've raised you to be strong, but you have yet to reach your real potential. You're still in need of guidance, and that is why I'll always have an ear on the pulse of the _Daily Planet—_so I will always know exactly what you need_."_

Marcus' jaw clenches. There is no ground to be gained from arguing against his father's rationale for spying on him. The man had clothed him, fed him, named him, and taught him how to hone his powers. At the very least, he owed Lionel his loyalty, he supposed, but he still couldn't consider firing Lois.

He tells his father as much. "Miss Lane had real courage out in the field, and delivered the story to me on time—from her _hospital bed, _Dad. On her first day, she's proven she'll do whatever it takes to get a story. I don't have another reporter like that in the whole bullpen." He pauses, and says something that he knows makes him vulnerable, but it's the truth:_ "I _need __her."

Lionel laughs to himself as he pours himself a glass of scotch. "No, son, what you _need _is a reporter who understands that LuthorCorp is a multinational corporation that would never sink to base sabotage. The fire at the exposition was the unfortunate result of a delusional fan, perhaps even a blindly loyal employee acting alone. But our company was not involved, and any claims to the contrary are nothing more than slander."

Marcus' eyes are cold as steel, his voice firm and resolute. "I _need_ her," he repeats, taking the glass from his father's hand and returning to his desk. "I told her to cut anything implying LuthorCorp's involvement with the incident, and she did. There's no need for concern, Father."

Lionel studies Marcus out of the side of his eye, and shakes his head almost imperceptibly. "Very well, son," he says, raising his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. "If you think you're up to the task of curtailing this girl's ambitious, sloppy journalism, the task is yours. But should you find your name being dragged through the mud, and _our _company with it, then the consequences shall be yours to bear."

Marcus studies the ice melting in his glass, now empty. He understands his father's ultimatum perfectly: if Lois starts digging too deep into LuthorCorp's doings, she won't just be out of a job; Lionel will seize the newspaper and have himself and Lois blacklisted, chalking up any anti-LuthorCorp sentiment to Lois' personal bias and Marcus' incompetence.

He nods, accepting his father's task, and Lionel takes his leave without another word.

Marcus turns to study the skyline from his office window, a faint cloud of smoke still lingering over downtown. Nearby the wreckage, he thinks, Lois Lane is in a hospital bed, recovering from injuries received for the sake of a story he'll be putting on page 3.

_I stuck my neck out for you, Miss Lane. Way out, _he thinks._ _And I didn't need to. Things will need to be carried out more effectively from now on. After all, we both know:__

_It isn't wise to disappoint a Luthor._


	3. Part III

**Author's Note: **Continued thanks to everyone who has supported me thusfar! I apologize in advance if this chapter seems a bit "slow" compared to the others; my original plan for what chapter 3 should include quickly spiraled out of control and I had to split what should have been one chapter into two! (This chapter clocked in at over 3000 words!) I'm still working on what is now chapter 4 and will hopefully have it up soon. Thanks in advance for your critique.

**Put it before them briefly so they will read it, clearly so they will appreciate it, picturesquely so they will remember it and, above all, accurately so they will be guided by its light.**

**Joseph Pulitzer**

**sic transit gloria**  
><strong>chapter three<strong>

A month after the Wayne Enterprises incident, the Luthor men are due for a matinee showing of Gounod's _Faust_ on a cloudy, nondescript Sunday. Alexander Luthor is taking one of his private cars to meet his father and brother at the Metropolitan Theatre, dressed impeccably, reading _the Art of War_; he's forgotten which rereading this one is. "Can you imagine what I could do," Sun Tzu asks Lex, "if I could do all that I can?"

The sentence settles in his stomach. He puts the book down and tries to distract himself by looking at the people walking from cafes and libraries, but the thoughts still come anyway.

_Can you imagine what I could do if I could do all that I can?_

If he were an only child, he may not have had such a hard time of it. If he were an only child, any father would be proud to call Lex their son. He is bright, shining like a morning star in his opera-worthy finery, his green eyes sharp and observant. Inside his mind, he is already dissecting the problems of the world, laying them bare. He thinks of ways that LuthorCorp can change the world once it's finally his. He will have the power to make cancer a bad dream, send HIV into the history books, feed every starving child, and open the vast archives of history and literature open, accessible to all who seek knowledge.

He passes by the populace of Metropolis in his Rolls-Royce, aware that he is better than all of them.

But next to Marcus—next to _Ultraman_? Forget it. It is all he can do to be noticed by Lionel at all, and it's all he can do to try to help his father forget his mistakes.

The car rolls to a stop in front of the Metropolitan, and the first thing Alexander Luthor sees is the gaunt, frowning face of his father, Marcus hovering behind him.

"You're late," Lionel says gruffly.

"Traffic on Broadway was terrible." Lex pauses. "It's nice to see you too, Dad."

"Spare me your excuses," Lionel says, and cocks his head in the direction of the theatre. "Our box is waiting."

Marcus offers Lex a sympathetic smile. For all of the ways Lionel dotes on him, Marcus has never seemed comfortable with it. Lex wishes that could make the situation any easier.

"How was Egypt?" At least Marcus can have the courtesy to ask about Lex's recent business trip. Lionel has yet to discuss it with him, but Marcus' mention of it now only makes the sentence settle deeper into Lex's mind.  
><em><br>Can you imagine what I could do if I could do all that I can? If I could do what _you_ can do, dear brother?_

"Sandy, and hot," Lex admits. Marcus smiles. "I'll never get the Sahara out of my loafers."

"I can't imagine it was all terrible," Marcus says. "Did you see the pyramids at Giza? The library in Alexandria?"

"Marvels, both," Lex says, before wryly adding with a frown to his father's back: "But then again, nothing compares to the comforts of home."

The Metropolitan is certainly a far cry from Egypt. Marble lions guard the stone steps to the theatre, a large golden dome that is often used on postcards alongside the Planet or Metropolis University's belltower. Inside, the architecture is inspired by Paris' Palais Gardier, gold upon crimson upon white marble.

The lights are flashing on and off to alert the patrons to the start of the show, but nobody really seems to pay attention. The rich and powerful are conversing, after all; heaven and hell can wait.

Marcus and Alexander each make their courtesies to other patrons, but while he's going through his, Alexander watches his brother. How effortless his smile is, how young girls' cheeks turn red when they look into his eyes, how he shakes hands with confidence.

_Can you imagine_, Sun Tzu asks Lex again, _what you could do if you could do what your brother can do?  
><em>  
>Lionel clears his throat impatiently and Marcus and Alexander quickly say goodbye to the Swanns. They both walk up the marble steps, grand men in the shadow of their great and terrible father, and take their seats in their private box.<p>

Marcus is impatient, eager for what his father has to say. The overture is dying down and the curtains are parting, but he refuses to wait. "What did you need to discuss with us, Dad?"

Lionel only chuckles. "Marcus, how many times do I have to tell you patience is a virtue?" Lex tries not to notice how whenever Lionel sees Marcus, he makes his adopted son his whole focus.

"I thought duty should always precede pleasure, Dad," Lex adds, sharing a small smirk with Marcus. "We've also seen _Faust_a handful of times, if I remember correctly."

"Not with _this_ Marguerite, you haven't," Lionel smirks, but he does humor his sons. "You are both men now, and not just any men. You are _my _sons. Luthor men, the men of tomorrow."

This sounds like something Lex and Marcus have heard a thousand times before. Lex struggles not to yawn, and barely succeeds. He decides to watch the opera out of the corner of his eye instead.

"You have both done fine jobs," Lionel says after a pause. "Marcus, you've performed splendidly at maintaining political neutrality while backing LuthorCorp in the press. And Lex—I heard about your successes in securing a new supplier for us in Cairo."

_You heard_, Lex thinks dismissively, not keeping his eyes off the stage, _but you didn't care enough to talk about it with me_.

"It is time to see what you are truly made of," Lionel continues. "Marcus, your work with the _Planet _is beyond reproach, but you have yet to scratch the surface of your true abilities. And Lex...?"

Lex stares back from Faust's agony and the beginning strains of _Rien! En vain j'interroge_ to his father. "Pardon?"

"Pay attention, Lex." Lionel smiles. "I have been contemplating your success in Cairo, and decided that it was high time you assumed more of a leadership position. So starting Monday, LexCorp will become an official subsidy of LuthorCorp."

Lex can scarcely believe it. He should be angry that his father never asked if he wanted his own corporation, that he named it for him, that everything has already been decided. But at last, he has the chance to do everything he has dreamed of. A place for him to affect the change he wishes to see upon the world, not carry out his father's outdated vision.

Marcus is proud of him, a smile bright on his face. "You were born to do this, Lex," Marcus smiles, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "You're going to be great."

_Not as great as you—not half as great as Ultraman._

"However," Lionel says, studying the floor for a bit, "I must admit that you both have problems to attend to."

Not already. Every question had been a quiz growing up for the both of them, every challenge a do-or-die moment. Lex should have expected this.

"Don't let me down _too _hard, Dad; I've only been CEO a minute."

Lionel smiles. "Lex, you've _not_ been a CEO a minute. In fact, you have yet to start. You see, LexCorp's minimum budget has yet to be met, and I could only do so much. If you want LexCorp to be yours, you must pay half of the costs I've had charged to you."

It is all Lex can do to not reach out and shake his father. Not only has his father picked his destiny for him, _but _he's also sent him burrowing down into the red before he's even started!

"And Marcus, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, too," Lionel says in a voice that sounds sympathetic, but hardly is. "You see, the _Planet_'s been doing well, son, but newspaper is still a dying medium. I took a second look, and I'm afraid that if you don't increase your subscriptions, you'll have to fire half your staff to make ends meet by the end of this quarter."

Lex has seen the numbers himself and knows that while the _Daily Planet _is slightly overcrowded and does need a subscription boost, it is not nearly so bad. Lionel only wants that girl reporter, that Lois Lane, out of the picture, because of that little run-in with Ultraman coupled with the accusation against LuthorCorp of sabotage. It was all in the past as far as Marcus was concerned, but Lex can't blame his father; he'd probably fire the girl too before she learned too much.

"Father, you _can't _be serious—" Marcus starts, but Lex does not listen to the rest of his brother's protest. In exquisite French, Faust is crying about his losses to the heavens, lamenting the man he could have been outside of his studies. Lex's bridge between French and English is so small that it doesn't even matter that the subtitles on the side screens are gone; he understands him completely.

"_See the world in the palm of his hand_," intones the Faust on-stage, round tones reverberating throughout the theatre. "_Striding steps that cover the land_." He raises his eyes to the audience, pointing outwards. "_He is coming, hear him coming! Are you ready for his being_?"

When Lex was young and saw this opera performed, he used to pretend Faust was singing about him, about the great and terrible man he would become. A prince among men, a model of all that humanity could be. But now something pangs at him, something as persistent as Sun Tzu's questions, and he knows now Marcus is more a giant than he is. Faust is singing about Marcus Luthor, about _Ultraman_.

He decides that he must amend this.

"I know you will not disappoint me," Lionel's voice says, trickling back into Lex's ears. His father turns to look at Faust, unaware that his second chance has just begun. Marcus is already paying attention too, but Lex hears his father still whispering: "My sons, my men of tomorrow..." 

* * *

><p>A month after the Wayne Enterprises incident, Lois Lane enters the <em>Planet <em>with a sore ankle but a healthy ego. It's actually been a good month for her, despite the multiple doctor's appointments and having to give up her stylish expensive stilettos for padded flats.

She's taken taxis all over the city since her release from the hospital, off to interview candidates for mayor and observe the current gridlock in the state Senate. And every article comes back with a compliment from Mr. Marcus Luthor, though the roses were apparently only a part of the deal if she injured herself while getting to a story.

Eventually in her inbox, she receives a request for her to be in his office at 7:30 AM the following Friday to discuss her latest article: a criticism of the state's currently fruitless approach to budget control. It's front-page worthy and she knows it, but the next morning, she _still_ sees it printed on page 3, so close to her goal and so far from it.

Lois comes in prepared to explain why she supported a corporate tax increase in her article, thinking that is the reason for her presence and also for the page placement. But Marcus instead informs her she will be on the city beat, sharing it with a woman whose name Lois doesn't even catch. It doesn't matter. It's not important. _She's on the beat._

"Are you _serious_?" Lois knows the prestige that comes with the city beat. All of the big-time articles will come to her automatically—well, either to her or to that other writer, but she couldn't care less about that. The city beat! She could faint from excitement.

The news arrives in the basement before Lois does, and many of her fellow reporters at least have the decency to say _congratulations, Miss Lane_, even if they would rather have gotten that promotion themselves. Only Catherine Grant—or Cat, as some people apparently call her—is honest with Lois.

"You don't deserve that promotion," she sneers, and Lois struggles to keep her defenses down so she can see why Cat, who she has never said anything to, is so angry with her. "I've been trying to get it since the instant I graduated, and you get _one _minute with Ultraman and some politicians to talk to you, and all of a sudden, it's yours?"

"Mr. Luthor was the one who gave me it; he thought I deser—" Lois begins, but Cat's eyes widen, and she smiles at Lois in a way that suggests she ought to be afraid of what will happen next.

"Say no more, Miss Lane," she smirks. "I completely understand."

* * *

><p>It turns out that Cat Grant completely misunderstood.<p>

The next day, Lois notices that whispers are following her wherever she goes, but it feels different than the ones that followed her the day before. Men are paying more attention to her in ways she'd rather they not, and women avoid eye contact with her, as if she's a walking disease. Finally, she finds a shy-looking intern with all his buttons buttoned and a bright red bow tie, and wrestles him into a phone booth.

"Miss Lane!" The boy's eyes are so wide they look like they'll burst out of his face. "What's all this—?"

"Look here, junior," Lois snarls. In an instant the boy's face falls flat. "People have been looking at me like I've got a scarlet _A_ on my chest. You're going to tell me what gives, and _now_."

The boy nods, swallowing. "W-well, I heard from Cat—uh, Miss Grant—that the only reason you got that promotion to the city beat was, um—" He can't be more than sixteen, but if this is how he talks, he's going to find it hard to survive in this world of do-or-die deadlines and faster-is-better rationale.

"Was because?" Lois prompts, crossing her arms.

"Was because you and Mr. Luthor, uh, slept together...Miss Lane."

Lois is shocked silent for a second. The beginnings of a headache are already throbbing at her temples. Her ears can vaguely register the bow-tie boy asking, "Do you need anything, Miss Lane? Water, maybe? You really don't look that good."

Lois shoves her way past him, careening through the mass of sniggering reporters like a torpedo heading to her desk. She plops her purse down carelessly, slamming her hands on the desk so Cat looks up from her article and up at her.

Despite her loud entrance, Lois only gives her a small smile. "Cat," she says in a friendly voice, as if they both don't wish the other dead, "do you mind if I borrow you for a moment?"

"Sure, Lois," Cat says in that same sickeningly sweet tone, "anything."

The archive room is quiet enough, but when Cat shuts the door, Lois goes off on her.

"You had _no _right to do that to me," Lois snaps angrily. Cat's light eyebrows perk up in response, ice in her eyes. "Why did you have to say that? Now everyone thinks my success is attributed to what I'm _definitely _not doing with Mr. Luthor."

"Listen, missy," Cat snarls back, "I've been working on getting that promotion since I got here—a _year_ ago! You do a couple of timely election interviews, a piece on Ultraman, and you get it just like that?" She laughs mockingly. "No. Don't underestimate me. I know when I smell a rat. You're sleeping with him."

"I'm _not_, I—!"

And then Lois cuts herself off, remembering the picture of the boy on the desk. She hadn't thought about it before: Cat may not have a husband in the picture. She might not have any money coming in besides what comes from the _Planet_. A promotion would've meant more than prestige or a raise; it would've been the world for her son.

"Cat," she says suddenly, turning back to face the blonde, "you're—you said that because you wanted it, but—your son—"

"You don't _know _me," Cat snaps back. "We're not friends, and I don't need your empathy or your charity, Lois. I know what I said, and I know I didn't know it was happening. But don't even try to act like you're sorry about it."

"But...I am," Lois says. It's not so much that she's sorry about the raise or the position; she's just sorry she has to deal with a rumor now that will make her seem unprofessional. "Look, I can—maybe see if you can get promoted or something too—"

"Don't even bother, Lois," Cat says flippantly. "I'd rather accept help from anyone but you."

_Well, that was a complete disaster_, Lois thinks sullenly as Cat storms out of the room. She doesn't want to, but it looks like she'll have to involve Marcus to dispel the rumor and get people focusing on the _Planet_'s success, which is the real task at hand. 

* * *

><p>The elevators are jammed with people at the bottom, but by the time she's on floor 12 again she's the only one left. Marcus' secretary—who Lois now sees is named Bria Gale—smiles and says, "Hello, Miss Lane, congratulations on your promotion," and Lois is grateful that it seems like Bria doesn't go down to the bullpen much.<p>

Marcus' door is ajar, so Lois doesn't bother asking Bria if he's free. She takes a couple knocks on the door, and Marcus peers up from beneath his stack of papers. Today he is dressed in purple and black, a modern-day emperor, and Lois struggles not to think about him like that. _I can't prove the rumors right. I can't._

"Miss Lane," he asks nonchalantly, "is it possible that the city beat is giving you trouble _already_?"

"The beat's not exactly the problem, sir," Lois says, wringing her hands as she walks to his desk. "I don't—really know if you spend much time in the 'pen, but—"

"But you just wanted to clarify that we're not currently having a sexual affair." He laughs. "Miss Lane, I'm sure I wouldn't be able to forget if I _was _conducting an affair with you."

Lois turns a furious shade of scarlet. He's laughing it off, right in front of her. _To be a Luthor, and untouchable_, she thinks bitterly. She'd kill for it right now.

"I also wanted to say that if my merit is in question, I will prove it," she says, trying to sound as standoffish as she can, even if her cheeks are still unmistakably crimson and her words are missing her usual conviction. "You'll see."

Marcus chuckles, and refocuses on Lois' face. She's never sure what's going on with him, never knows if he's appraising or demeaning her in his mind. "All right, Miss Lane, you have my attention. Just how are you going to prove your merit to the others?"

Lois only purses her lips into a smile. "You'll see." _I can't have him regret promoting me_, she thinks. _I have to prove I deserve it. To the others, to his family._

_To everyone who thinks I shouldn't be where I am._


	4. Part IV

**A/N:** This is another mini-novel update for you guys! I know it's been a lot of rising action so far, so thanks so much for putting up with it for me. Things will go down now, I promise. My undying gratitude goes out to everyone who's reviewed, commented, liked, reblogged, and so on, as well as to Michael, who helps the Luthor men step off the page. Enjoy!

**Journalism can never be silent: that is its greatest virtue and its greatest fault. It must speak, and speak immediately, while the echoes of wonder, the claims of triumph and the signs of horror are still in the air.**

**Henry Anatole Grunwald**

**sic transit gloria**  
><strong>chapter four<strong>

The following month and a half is quite literally hell on earth. Lois didn't even know espresso shots could come in a quadruple option until she realized she desperately needed it. Fueled by coffee, maple donuts, Red Bulls, and the blinding sun-like light of computer screens, she pulls double shifts every day. If she's not in town on a lead, she's editing papers, tagging along with intern assignments, anything if she can spare a minute.

Dark circles slowly surface under her eyes. She's yawning more often than she should. On the weekends when she's not needed, she crashes hard at her apartment, sleeping through sunrises and sunsets alike. But every day she wakes up desperate to prove what she can do. She is beaten up and exhausted and she's looked so much better, but she is fiercely determined.

_Let anyone try to say I don't deserve my raise now._

Soon, people don't snigger when they pass by. They don't ask her about Marcus. They see her coming like a cyclone, and they stay the hell out of her way. But it's not enough. She could interview every damn mayor and presidential candidate in the continental U.S. and it wouldn't get her where she needs to be.

What—_who_—she needs to get to where she wants to be—is Ultraman.

She can never find him during the day despite her best efforts, but at night, she can't escape him. He stands in her dreams like a shadow, like a tower, like something impenetrable and unknowable. One night he is an angel, burning all the shadows away with fire that comes from his eyes, and when she's in his arms she is warm and safe, like the day he saved her. But another night he is a devil, destroying civilizations, destroying her, with a touch of his finger.

She can't stop thinking about the way his arms wrapped around her, the way the smoke parted around them so the sun could shine in her eyes. _What can I even say to have him talk to me? Who knows if he even wants to talk to me? What do I say? "Thanks for saving my life, now reveal all your secrets to me?"_

Every night before she sleeps she writes potential interview questions down. _Where do you come from? What's your real name? What do you look like? How do you do what you do? Did it happen to you? Or have you always been able to do what you do? Do you consider yourself a hero? Why us, why Metropolis? _

And the most important questions of all: _Why did you save me? How did you find me?_

_—Why me at all?_

* * *

><p>Marcus Luthor sits atop the <em>Daily Planet<em> in the editor-in-chief's office with ten articles left to sort through before the early Saturday morning edition is printed in about four hours. He thinks about how both his father's and brother's workdays were done long ago, knows they are either nursing drinks or out on the town. Marcus has never been one for the glitz of downtowns, so he doesn't mind it so much. He figures he probably should mind more, should do as his father wishes and be more of a Luthor, more of an overman, and less of_—_whatever Marcus is being.

He sighs and rubs his temples, reaching for a bottle of aspirin he keeps in his desk. Lately he's been feeling more and more conflicted about his early morning runs through the city, whisking fire victims out of danger and dropping robbers into jail cells. His father has already made it clear to him that Ultraman is a waste of time if he is not directly servicing LuthorCorp, and frowns upon his selfless tendencies; his brother has also said he doesn't understand why Marcus just uses his powers to seize whatever he may want. Marcus knows the Luthors are his only family, knows that without them he could've been picked up by anyone else. But the call to save others, the call to help them is something so deeply ingrained in his blood he can never hope to escape it.

Reading through editorial letters, he knows that this is not always what people see. Many write to him calling Ultraman a monster, more freak than human, questioning his motives. Marcus didn't have an answer for them until Lois Lane came along and proclaimed Ultraman a vigilante hero in her first editorial for the _Planet_. He had brushed that off, though, especially in the wake of other newspapers accusing Ultraman of staging the Wayne Enterprises disaster himself to make him look more like a hero to the people of Metropolis. Lois was eager, and that was priceless in a new writer, but she was also still new, just learning.

Lois nonetheless had potential; that much was true. He wouldn't have promoted her to the city beat if he didn't think so_—_and he wouldn't have promoted her if he wasn't sure Lionel's order that he had to fire half his staff included firing Lois. In any case, she would be protected from retribution for her article because of her position. But she was more than a rookie writer to him.

The rumors that Miss Grant had spread had made him reconsider Lois as a woman. He would easily admit that she was attractive enough in her own way, with her wavy long hair and curious bright eyes, but he would have to be someone else entirely if he wished to pursue her.

His last relationship, with a girl named Lori—he still remembered how she had always smelled of the sea—had left him unwilling to put his heart on the line again. There were other things to focus on to discourage him from going after Lois: his reputation as a professional editor-in-chief, his father's and brother's guaranteed disapproval. He tells himself to remove her from his mind; nothing will ever happen worth noticing.

But she still stays in his thoughts even after the articles are sent to the printer's, and when he arrives on the basement floor, he still sees Lois there, her face lit by a computer screen, the primary source of light in the room. She quickly exits out of a word processing program and removes a flash drive from the USB port before looking back up at him, as if she desperately hopes he hadn't seen it. For the moment, he pretends not to.

"Burning the midnight oil, hot shot?" he asks, trying to avoid the formality of "Miss Lane." Lois whips her head around to look at him, her ponytail bouncing behind her. He approaches her desk, carrying his Armani suit jacket behind his shoulder.

"I just sent you my article," she says with a shrug of her shoulder, looking up at him with a smile. "Do you think Senator Clark would actually give me the time of day with my ideas about the gridlock?"

"Martha Clark was elected because she listens to the people," Marcus Luthor says with a smile. "And you are a resident she represents. I'm sure she'll get back to you." Lois is busy packing up her things in an oversized tote bag. "Do you have any plans now that you're not chained to the desk?"

"Coffee," Lois says with a nod. "Or sleep." She lets out a yawn that she stifles with her hand; he notices that her nails are painted a dark purple. "So far, I think sleep has the more compelling argument."

He remembers her editorial two weeks ago on why she takes public transportation. "You _aren't_ taking the light rail at this time of night."

Lois shrugs. "I take taxis at night, and I have my pepper spray." Marcus only looks at her with a raised eyebrow. "My father's a five-star General, Mr. Luthor. Trust me. I can handle myself."

He nods no, just as stubborn as she is. "Miss Lane, I insist. My father wouldn't let me hear the end of it if I let one of my star reporters go home unprotected."

He can see her thinking about whether or not she should say yes. He knows the rumors Cat spread bothered her, knows that she wants so badly to be a Pulitzer-winning journalist, a leader in an ever-evolving field, and that being seen in a Luthor escort would ruin that reputation.

"I don't—" she begins, protesting, but he takes her hand. It's an impulsive gesture and Lois stiffens when he grasps her hand, which is soft and warm, with lotion that smells like orchids. But soon the moment is over; she yanks her hand away from him, and sighs.

"Fine," she says, holding up her hands, but she still fixes Marcus in her eyes. "_But_ I don't want this to be fuel for Cat's fire. No funny business, all right? You're not going to walk me to the door, you're not going to ask me for a drink, and you're going to stay on your side of the backseat."

He laughs. "Fair enough."

As he walks to the car, Marcus is torn over what he is really doing here. He leapt before he looked, and now he has easily twenty minutes in a car with Miss Lane, next to alone. A part of him tells him he is being chivalrous, a gentleman, that he could not just let her go home unaccompanied. But another part informs him that his selfish, primal instincts are at work here too.

The inside of the Aston-Martin is a regulated 60 degrees, a simple white-on-black interior with a dark red paint on the outside. It is unassuming, and quiet, unlike his brother's vividly white Rolls-Royce and his father's obsidian black Bentley. Marcus helps Lois into the car, and then follows her inside. Very quietly—almost as if she's afraid he'll hear her—she tells the driver her address, who smiles at her and says, "Certainly, Miss Lane," and rolls up the partition to leave Lois alone with him.

She looks out the window, almost as if she can't bear to face him. He takes a few seconds to study her reflection in the window, but catches himself before he gets lost in it. He supposes that's why Lionel continues to give him grief about keeping her around.

He clears his throat and his mind, and, as conversationally as he can manage, he asks her what she was working on when he came downstairs. She turns around and smiles a bit nervously. She's hiding something, and he knows it.

"Just a little something I was proofreading for a new intern," Lois lies, but she's not at all convincing. Marcus gives her a look that lets her know instantly that she needs to practice her lying if she wants to fool a Luthor.

"I don't think it's in your best interest to keep secrets from me, Miss Lane," he says lackadaisically. "I've done a lot for you. This is the least you could offer me."

She bites her lip nervously. "They were, um, questions." She looks embarrassed, but why? "For—an interview I'm trying to land."

"With who?"

"With _Ultraman_!" She practically screams the word, and then sits with her legs crossed, burying herself behind her arms so Marcus doesn't see how red she's gotten. But Marcus isn't thinking about that at all.

He's stuck on the idea that someone _wants_ to speak to Ultraman—that someone wants to speak to Marcus and yet not him at all. He allows himself a smirk and considers how Lois might react if he told her Ultraman was sitting across the way from her. But he restrains himself. Best to figure out what she intends to do with this exclusive interview of hers.

"Ultraman? You're planning to interview a man who hasn't even spoken _properly _to anyone in the press? Who has yet to show his face?"

Lois looks oddly relieved that Marcus hasn't laughed at her. She nods. "I am. I'll be the first person to help Ultraman make a statement to the people. There's just—there's so much we need to know about him, you know? Where he comes from, why he does what he does...who he really is." She sighs, burying a hand in her curls and looking back up at him. "I feel like not enough people see him as a hero. They see him as—a monster, a freak, as someone who isn't one of us, but he is." She finishes, quietly, a small smile on her face: "He _has_ to be."

He has never heard anyone talking about his alter ego like this before, not when his family regards the persona as a nuisance and half the city is convinced he's a serial killer with a twisted M.O. He had thought he could only trust Lois with the news about town, but now he wonders if he can trust her with Ultraman. He won't agree to anything just yet, but he's certain that if Ultraman ever wanted a press agent, Miss Lane would be at the top of the list.

But he only clears his throat and returns her smile. "Your enthusiasm is certainly—convincing."

Lois flashes him her own winning smile. "I do try, Mr. Luthor."

Before he can think twice, he blurts it out. "Marcus."

The statement makes her stand still for a second. "What?" she asks, disbelieving.

He just keeps smiling. "I told you. Just call me 'Marcus.' Consider it an order—Lois."

He really should insist on Mr. Luthor for himself, insist on Miss Lane for her. The line between professional and casual is suddenly a lot more blurred than it should be. Marcus remains calm, expectant that she will give into his request, even as he can see Lois' skin going prickly and her mind racing a mile a minute behind her eyes.

"Marcus, then," she says, and remembers how to breathe again when the car skids to a stop in front of her run-down apartment complex. "Well," she starts, holding out a hand for a very professional, employee-to-boss handshake, "thanks very much for the ride—"

He takes her hand in both of his before she can protest. They stare at each other for a minute, maybe more. He can't remember any of the reasons he had listed beforehand over why he could not pursue her. They are all buried underneath the realization that Lois wants to know who Ultraman is—wants to know who _Marcus_ is—in a way that nobody has ever bothered with before. _And if she could know him—she could know _me_—_

"Marcus?" she asks, bringing him outside of his mind and back to her and her hand in his and her eyes wide in front of him. "Are you okay?"

"_Lois_," he murmurs in response, and he grasps her shoulders tightly. She lets out a little gasp, but even after a few seconds in his grip, she does not protest, does not back away. All of his instincts are united for once in his life, telling him to kiss her. He lowers his gaze to her lips, and closes his eyes as he feels her soft lips against his—

Something buzzes. They both instinctively check their pockets as they retreat to their respective seats, murmuring awkward apologies to each other. Marcus' brand-new Droid is the source, with the word _Father_ on Marcus' caller ID.

"My father—" he starts, but Lois holds up her hands, smiling apologetically.

"Not a problem," she says casually, and Marcus knows almost instantly he has blown the only chance he may have ever had to kiss her. "You should get it. I'll, uh, I'll see you on Monday."

She gets out of the car with about as much grace as an egret, not even turning around to give him a wave goodbye. He sighs, retreating, and clears his throat. "The mansion, Jason, please," he says, picking up the phone, and the Aston-Martin is gone.

* * *

><p>Lionel's call had seemed urgent enough that Marcus had allowed Jason to speed down the interstate towards Cowell County, to a sleepy little place called Smallville where the Luthor mansion had been moved. While Lionel enjoyed Metropolis, he had told Marcus and Alexander when they were children that it was important for a man to have a place to retreat, regroup, away from the distraction of the city. When Jason opens Marcus' door the only thing he can hear within the stretch of the town is crickets, and whirring old lights on Main Street that have not been changed for some time.<p>

The Luthor mansion is the last remaining legacy of the Luthors-across-the-sea, Scottish men who came before Lionel and Lex. Marcus had never quite felt at home here, painfully aware that had things been different, he would have not called the mansion home at all. Its legacy was for Luthors like Lex, like Lionel, who were born into it. But he swallows many protests for his father, who is waiting in the office that had served as many things while they had grown up: a training ground, a library, a lounge, a billiards room.

"Ah, Marcus, how good to see you," says Lionel in a way that makes the hairs stand on the back of Marcus' neck. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."

Marcus is anticipating a trying conference with his father. The call had certainly not been pleasant, and he decides that he had best bring up his father's grievances before Lionel can use them against him.

"Father, about the _Planet_—"

"Yes, the planet," Lionel says with a cynical smirk, and Marcus doesn't look forward to what might be next. "Your little—Ultraman persona is really getting quite tiring, son. Is this vigilante business any way to use the powers you have been blessed with?"

Marcus glowers at his father, suddenly on the defense. "I can use them as I see fit."

"But you have yet to use them to expand LuthorCorp's influence," Lionel snaps back, and a twinge of guilt tugs at Marcus' heart. "You could do so much with what you have been given, Marcus. The possible applications are practically innumerable—"

"Lois Lane seems to disagree." Marcus squares his jaw, his eyes confident, his spine ramrod straight. "She intends to interview Ultraman—and I've half a mind to let her. She believes in my mission, Father. Why can't you?"

Lionel chuckles to himself, swirling some port in a glass in his hand. "Speaking of Miss Lane," he says, the amusement in his voice hardly veiled, "I can see now why you insist on keeping her around. She certainly _is _lovely, isn't she?"

"You were—?" Marcus bites back the question once he realized he hadn't done his customary camera check before escorting Lois inside the car. His father had seen everything, then. "What I do with Miss Lane is none of your business."

Lionel only laughs. "It is when she is a threat that you cannot comprehend," he says firmly. "While Miss Lane may be...aesthetically pleasing," he admits with a cough, "it's outweighed by the danger she poses. She is maneuvering towards you simply as a means to expose you, not to serve as your goodwill ambassador to the citizens of Metropolis. Do you _really_ think she would keep Ultraman's identity to herself if she were to uncover it?"

Marcus' face falls. Lionel turns his neck and studies the fire, aware that his son had not yet considered these problems, flames flickering in his eyes. "She asks too many questions for her own good, son. As a journalist, that is an unparalleled asset. But as your confidante?" He shakes his head, his words weighed with experience. "Journalists are in the business of exposing secrets, son, not keeping them."

He turns back to his son, sorting through some papers on his desk. "A girl that works for Lex, a Miss Mercer, would be an acceptable replacement if you cannot separate business from, ah, _pleasure_—"

"With all due respect, Father," Marcus says as he stands up, with a tone of darkness in his voice, "I don't believe I need to replace Miss Lane." The flames throw shadows across his face. "...I can make you proud. And I will."

Lionel only stares back at his son before Marcus gives up and speeds from the room. He is headed north, north to the only place on Earth where both Ultraman and Marcus Luthor can meet.

But he can still hear Lionel's disappointed voice in his head, echoing endlessly: _It is such a shame, son. You think of yourself as so much less than what you are._

_My little Traveler_, he says, growing almost louder even as Marcus breaks past the last city and sprints onto dark tundra, _will you ever seize your true potential?_


	5. Part V

**A/N: **My darling readers, thanks again for all the views, reviews, favorites, and alerts! Things are kind of picking up IRL for me since I have a much more involving job than I did before! I can't promise that updates will continue to be as fast as they have been, but I will do my best to get these out as fast as possible and more importantly, finish this.

Thanks so much for all your patience with me thusfar! Also, I got silly and topical throughout this last bit of the chapter, and I promise I'll do better to keep this AU and all, but I spend a lot of time reading newspapers, and I couldn't resist. Enjoy! :)

**Free press can, of course, be good or bad, but, most certainly without freedom, the press will never be anything but bad.**

**Albert Camus**

**sic transit gloria**  
><strong>chapter five<strong>

Marcus Luthor runs and runs to the North. There is something liberating about the escape from the mansion and Lionel's raspy voice, something liberating about the way he is running up through Nebraska and the Dakotas faster than most people blink. He runs through fields of grain and through quiet cities, up through the hustle and bustle of Canada proper until he is far beyond even the Northwestern Passages, far beyond where most explorers have dared to go.

Before him stands his Kryptonian birthright, the last testament of where he had come from, a planet far across the stars he will never see. His birth father Jor-El had called it his Fortress of Solitude, a place for Marcus to be who he was without fear of discovery or being ordered around. The crystals pile high atop each other, forming a roof that sparkles with the knowledge of the twenty-eight known galaxies.

Marcus is still not entirely at ease in the Fortress, though Lionel had permitted him to have it hidden away here nearly five years ago. Though the cold cannot bother him, the North Pole is a far cry from the warm Mediterranean climates his father preferred to raise them in. He feels juxtaposed between two extremes, between the Luthorian and the Kryptonian, and coming here always reminds him of his delicate position. He only comes to the Fortress to bury secrets and doubts and try to soldier on.

"Welcome, Kal-El," says his true father with a voice that is separated from him through death and space. There is still warmth there, far beneath the surface, and Marcus' shoulders sink, relax ever so slightly. "What troubles you, my son?"

"Father," he says, with a note of reverence in his voice. "I'm afraid I've been feeling―conflicted about what I am here on Earth to do."

Jor-El's distant voice is confused, almost flustered. "I have shown you through our Kryptonian teachings that you are meant to be a beacon of light on Earth. Your destiny is clear."

Marcus remembers the trek across the galaxies his father took him upon, a trek that covered the human heart and intergalactic wars and philosophy and Kryptonian councils from centuries past.

"I'm afraid I still have questions to ask," Marcus says. "I'm aware of what you want, and―there is a woman I've come to know who believes in my charge as well." He thinks briefly of Lois and how warm she was in his arms and the way she said that name―his name―_Ultraman_. "But I fear that my f―_Lionel_ wants something completely different for me."

He walks around the Fortress, snow parting around his shoes and ice drops falling on his sleeves. "He would see me a conqueror, a king among men. But I know―that cannot be my path." He pauses, the material of his vest whipping softly in the wind. "Must it be?"

"Lionel Luthor has tried to shape you in his own image," his father replies solemnly, "to be a man devoid of the nobility inherent within you. He would seek to make you a man like him, but you must _always _remember who you are. You are the last son of Krypton, and the last heir to the House of El. Do not let Lionel's nature corrupt you, as it corrupted Krypton before you," he continues, a tinge of regret in his dead, faraway voice. "Were it not for that arrogance―I could embrace you now, my son―"

Marcus realizes after a moment that he has tears in his eyes. He wipes them away against the bitter cold of the North. "I have tried to please both you and―Lionel," he says, settling on using his adopted father's name. "He's my father, too. But I'm afraid he's asking much of me I cannot do."

Jor-El says after a pause that is longer than Marcus would like: "...try as you might to deny it, you are not one of them, Kal-El. If Lionel Luthor would seek to derail your destiny for his own purposes, you must be willing to forge a path free of his influence. You are a man now, and soon it shall be time for you to embrace your true nature as Earth's savior."

Marcus hates that word, _destiny_. Both Lionel and Jor-El have lorded the idea over him and he's not sure he likes either option. Jor-El would have him serve all humanity, a calling Marcus yearns for, but one that Lionel would never approve of. Instead, Lionel would have him destroy the world and recreate it in a better image, become an overman over all the earth. He wishes things were really as simple as his fathers, both living and dead, made them out to be.

"Thank you, Father," he says, and after a heartbeat, he vanishes.

* * *

><p>After the disaster in the Aston-Martin, Lois Lane decides that if she has any chance of proving herself as the journalist the world needs, she has to forget about Marc―<em>Mr. Luthor. <em>And his eyes. And his arms. And the way their mouths almost touched.

She has to focus on the future. Marcus Luthor was still a Luthor, and Luthors were the evil she was fighting. She's trying to destroy his father and brother, and she never forgets that, but she had let her guard down way too far that night. She had been lost in the way his hands wrapped around her waist, in the reassuring way his weight held her down. She had been a fool. Ultraman is her way to the top, had always been her way there, and she doesn't intend to forget that again.

Despite this resolution, through every night, there are no towers or angels or devils in her dreams, the way there usually are. There is only Marcus, and his arms, and his mouth, and she wakes up with a flush in her cheeks that she can never really hide. It is not so easy to forget a man like Marcus―especially when he's a Luthor.

But she _has_ to forget him, or she will be lost—another victim of the Luthor hold on Metropolis, and someone else will tell her the truth she is trying to find. Throughout the next few weeks at the _Planet_, she sends interns up to his office if she can help it. She stops talking with Bria before she leaves for assignments and "forgets" to have post-work coffee with her in the little café across Broadway. Her e-mails to Marcus become as curt and businesslike as she can manage.

If he has a problem with it, he says nothing to her. A few nights she _thinks _she sees him in the door to the bullpen, watching her from an almost chivalric distance, but every time she stops to take a look he is never there. He now only exists outside of her peripheral vision, in the floors above her.

But being out of Marcus' line of vision isn't all pleasant; Lois' new mission of consistently waiting for Ultraman to show up is wearing her down. She tries to rain letters down from the _Planet_'s helicopter, but it only results in prank calls and restraining orders, so she has to find him some other way.

She tries to stake out near neighborhoods where he had saved people, talk to people who are going about their lives, but they all say the same thing. One minute he was there and one minute he wasn't. If they know where he is now, they don't tell her.

It was _magic_, says a little girl who fell from a building, it was magic and he was an angel and you should have heard my mommy scream. It was instantaneous, says a middle-aged scientist who survived a fire in his laboratory, and a dream because of course it was _impossible_. It was _evil_, a devil trying to drag me to hell, an old lady tells her, who was almost a robbery victim, and shows her a scar where something—no, where _he_—burnt into her skin with the heat of his eyes.

So she is back at square one, wanting to affect change and speak for Ultraman, but not able to do anything about it. She returns to investigating the files that were missing on her first day, that are still gone now, if only to forget everything else she'd rather not think about.

And so, on an idle Tuesday afternoon, when Marcus Luthor is in a conference with Bruce Wayne and Bria's temp replacement doesn't know any better and gives her the key, she finds herself skulking around his mahogany-lined office.

She decides right out that she will never be able to break into his computer. It's all she can do to break into Cat's every so often, and her passwords are easy. Marcus' won't be, and his security will be on her in a second if there are any sensitive files. She'll lose her job or her dignity for sure, so instead she looks for a paper trail.

The files in his cabinets don't give her very much. She notices he's been keeping tabs on Ultraman in the same way she has; every article about him is divided into two folders that read **PRO** and **CON** in big, bold letters. Of course he has no written record of _his _personal opinion on the manner. It's useless to her in the big picture of an exposé, and so she throws them aside.

There are also yellowing newsprint sheets that mention his father and brother; most of them are fairly damning, written by products of Met U like herself, though a few about his own highly publicized adoption are specially folded and kept aside in an envelope that's been sealed and broken over and over again. She is careful to refold the papers in the exact same way she found them.

These seem to be the missing files from the _Planet_'s communal cabinets, but then again, Marcus could have an easily reasonable rationale for keeping them. Sentimental reasons, but rational ones. Lois could punch him for ruining the _one_ lead that she had on his family.

But she is here, and chances are she will never get another opportunity. She has to make it worthwhile. And so she keeps digging.

Beneath all the files she's found, there are two more. One is unlabeled; the other is entitled **EXCELSIOR**, filled with developed pictures of Marcus and Alexander at varying stages in their youth. Marcus is always smiles and sharp canine teeth, a ray of sunlight from days gone by, a child who wouldn't recognize the man with his name. But Lois notices that Alexander's sullen expression rarely varies; usually he is only smiling when _he_ is the winner, when _he _has the medal or the certificate or the A—and those occurrences are far outnumbered by Marcus' own myriad achievements across multiple disciplines.

The other unlabeled file is full of someone's articles—and by the time she is on the third one, she realizes they are _her_ articles. Every single one of them is cut out with razor-straight lines, in fresh newsprint, and there is the usual _Planet _smell of coffee and ink about them, but also the faint scent of slightly burnt paper, of a place where he goes that she does not know. He reads them, she realizes, and often. And perhaps not just here—but why do they smell so—?

The secretary's phone rings. For an instant she forgets how to breathe, and then she hears Marcus ask the new secretary's name. She replaces the files so quickly that she doesn't even stop to think about how she's going to get out.

She is reminding him that her name is Kayla as Lois starts looking for a place to hide. She stuffs Kayla's key in her pencil skirt's single, almost uselessly small pocket and shuffles into Marcus' small spare cabinet. She's wedged between two suits—one black, one pinstripe—and instantly regrets her choice of shoes, stylish heels which will make noise if she dares to move. She struggles to get comfortable.

"Mr. Wayne on the line for you, sir," Kayla calls in, pressing buttons to transfer the call before Marcus can protest.

He sighs heavily as he picks up his phone, presses a button to turn on the speakers, and drops the receiver. "Bruce, I _told _you," he says, "I'm not going."

Bruce Wayne's voice is jovial enough, though Lois can tell from his lack of enunciation that he's more than a little hung-over. "Marcus, please. I insist. The charity ball wouldn't be the same without all the Luthors there. Your father and brother are surely riveting enough, but I would hate for you to be left out."

Lois leans in despite her heels, despite her position, despite everything. The Wayne Foundation's charity ball is perhaps the biggest in the country, a chance for philanthropists and the big names that work for the betterment of Gotham and Star City and Metropolis to come together. A profile on _any _one of them would mean at least consideration for a Pulitzer, Luthor exposé be damned. She prays Marcus will discuss more details. She's already considering on ways to sneak in if she has to.

"There's no one I want to go with, Bruce," Marcus says, loosening his tie and slouching back into his leather chair. "The woman you introduced me to—Lana—?"

"She's a dream, isn't she?" Bruce supplies, completely interrupting Marcus, who purses his lips and stiffens up in his seat in response. "I met her in Paris last month; she has real talent. I haven't seen charcoal used like that in a long time—"

"She does seem very nice," Marcus starts, but Bruce continues on, not hearing him.

"—she did a complete scale painting of the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles," Bruce is saying, admiration clear in his voice. "The shading was immaculate. It looked exactly like you'd been taken there. And then her vision of Monmartre is just stun—"

"She seems extremely talented," Marcus admits, his voice a little stronger. He stops. "But I don't want to go with her, Bruce."

"You're telling me you're turning down _Lana Lang_?" Bruce sounds incredulous, shocked. "For _who_?"

"Does it matter?" Marcus sighs. "I can tell you're taken with her anyway. Why don't you just go with her?"

"Mark, please," Bruce says. Marcus winces at the nickname, but doesn't protest it. "We're friends. You can tell me if there's another girl."

He clears his throat, and says softly, as if he's afraid someone will hear: "Lois Lane."

If she were any weaker, she would faint. But she can't. People who are fainting make noise, and Lois can't afford to make any. She's too busy reeling, with the beginning of a headache tearing at her temples. Part of her tells her this could be a trick, that the disaster in the Aston-Martin could become a bigger one if she doesn't stay careful, but another part of her tells the first to shut up.

"Lane? She's the girl who wrote that article on my exhibition, right?" Bruce asks.

Marcus smiles, and Lois' heart soars despite her brain screaming at her to be logical, practical, careful. "That's her."

Bruce sniffs. "She could've spent less time on Ultraman and more time defending the reliability of my technology. This accident wasn't a design flaw; it was just that—an accident. Did you tell her that?"

Lois makes a mental note to find an excuse to shove red wine into Bruce Wayne's face if she does get into this ball, and also that she should keep Tony Stark or Thomas Wayne in mind instead for her future Pulitzer-worthy article.

"Considering Miss Lane's personal debt to Ultraman that day," Marcus supplies, "it does seem fair that she would spend more time discussing him."

Lois smirks. She's not usually one for knights in shining armor; she was maybe eleven the last time she fell for men in that category. But it's touching to hear Marcus defend her, even if it's against a man who he probably considers a good friend, if not just a business acquaintance.

"Fair enough," Bruce admits. "Just get her to the ball if it means you'll be there."

Marcus sinks into his chair. He suddenly looks very tired. "No promises. But I'll do what I can."

"That's my man," Bruce says. A small phone noise echoes in the background of his call. "Ah. My call from Bali. You don't mind—"

"I look at your news releases, Bruce," Marcus says. "I know what's happening."

"Thanks, Marcus. I'm looking forward to meeting Lois." Before Marcus can protest again, he hangs up.

For a long, long minute, Marcus pours himself a glass of scotch as Lois remains in his cupboard, making no noise and pretending she doesn't exist.

Marcus is reaching for his drink when he suddenly sits up, almost as if he's heard something. Lois strains her ears, but she doesn't hear anything over the sound of her own heartbeat. In a split second, he's already grabbing his briefcase and his coat, telling Kayla he just remembered he has to be across town to see his father. Before Kayla can ask how long he'll be out, he's gone.

Lois falters in the cupboard, taking deep breaths. _So much for that_, she thinks. _I almost lost everything, and I didn't get a damn thing for my exposé_. Nothing except that Marcus Luthor would soon stop existing in the outskirts of her life. And she wasn't sure whether this was a good thing or a bad thing.

* * *

><p>Near the Metropolis International Airport, in a ninety-story building shaped like a capital L, Alexander Luthor looks upon his corporation, his <em>empire <em>with a distinct sense of pride. LexCorp had been doomed when his father had handed it to him during the first act of _Faust_. It had been deep in the red, with poor recruiting strategies and a distinct lack of a defined goal.

On some level, he's sure that his father had intended for this venture to fail, which would justify his preference for keeping his son at LuthorCorp, in a subservient position. But if Marcus can head the _Daily Planet_, Metropolis' source for news in print and online, then Lex can certainly make do with controlling the city's access to the skies.

His original goal—to make LexCorp an aerospace engineering firm, to put Metropolis on the map as a NASA launch site—was almost immediately derailed as NASA announced its last foreseeable flight for some time to come. After more than a few drinks and shouting matches, Lex had gutted what people he had, and then started over again, this time looking to save something from a nosedive.

His father had called him a fool for continuing to pour money into a company so deeply in the red, but Lex had snapped that he would surrender LexCorp over his dead body. Lionel had only stared at his son, as if he was actually considering Lex's metaphor seriously, and then had left with no more than a fleeting, self-satisfied smirk. But Lex knew all he needed was one more chance.

And that chance was American Airlines. Spiraling into chapter 11 bankruptcy, the airline had almost no protest to starting over with Lex at the helm—though US Airways had certainly had an issue or two. Despite the criticism and so-called arrogance of renaming the iconic airline to "LexAir," Metropolis citizens were quickly coming on board due to low fares, stellar service—and a complete redesign that allowed the planes to run entirely on solar power.

Lex had even converted one of his own private jets into the first of his fleet, which he had styled 'Liliana,' after his mother. Its inaugural flight from Metropolis to San Francisco had been highly publicized, and had won him a captive audience in the pro-solar cities of trend-setting California.

Ticket prices soon leapt up, as Lex had to make a profit quickly to pay off creditors, but people kept filing into Metropolis International Airport and asking for the next LexAir flight to San Francisco, to Tokyo, to Philadelphia—a sharp contrast to the rest of the struggling airline industry.

Which is why his little empire-that-could, sitting squarely across the way from the five thousandth LexAir flight that day—at only nine in the morning—is as grand to him as any pyramid, any palace, any of the wonders of the world.

During his rare free moments, in between champagne brunches and press conferences and interviews and consultations, he is a good son and rereads _The Prince._ "Machiavelli will make you ruthless, son," Lionel had told him continually, the same way he always had from when Lex was seven. "He'll make you a proper leader." Lex is not so entirely sure about _that_, but if he wants his father to stop criticizing him, one of his options is to play the dutiful son, and not the brutish rebel.

"A prince should therefore have no other aim or thought, nor to take up any other thing for his study, but war and its organization and discipline," Machiavelli is telling Lex from the fine old halls of Florence, "for that is the only art that is necessary to one who commands."

"I see you've taken to the skies." Lionel's unsolicited voice cuts through the air and drowns out Machiavelli's words. Lex drops his bookmark, but places the book down anyway.

"Good morning, Dad." Lex tries to hide the pride in his voice, but he can't. He's smiling brightly, almost as brightly as Marcus does. He expands a hand across his glowing office window, with LexAir planes on the runways as far as the eye can see. "How does it look? Trust me—this is only the beginning."

Lionel laughs, not cruelly at first. "Please, son, you overestimate yourself." He takes a deep breath and helps himself to some scotch. Lex wonders if he'll ever finish a full bottle on his own. "The problems with LexAir were only a _fraction _of the struggles I had coming out of the slums. And your little—scandal—of renaming American Airlines would've gone better if you'd had a proper PR department."

"My move would've had no real impact if I had decided to keep their failed name intact, Dad," Lex says, narrowing his eyes. If he was any other man—if his father was any other man—he would tell him that he ought to be proud of him, that he's on his way to becoming a more successful businessman. But Marcus' shadow is vast, inescapable, like a curse, even here, where the _Planet'_s silver globe is only a twinkle in the sky, hidden by the sun. "I had to tell the world whose idea this was."

Lionel's smug little smirk makes Lex want to slap it off his face. "I'm sure," is all his father says.

Lex's new secretary, a curvaceous redhead with equally red lipstick, knocks on the door. He nods to give her permission. She stares at Lionel as if she is looking at the face of a monster.

"Mr. Luthor, sir," she says, suddenly biting her red, red lip nervously. "You may want to turn to channel 4."

Lex only stares at her for the briefest of moments before turning it on to see his own father telling the free press that he had come up with the solar technology that drove LexAir.

"Of course my son is a brilliant, capable man," he is telling the tens of microphones in front of him. "I did raise him, after all." There are a few nervous laughs from the journalist audience. A time stamp tells Lex his father had conducted this conference just minutes ago.

"But of course LuthorCorp was in a fine position to acquire American Airlines. We had to act quickly if we wanted to keep the flight attendants and pilots in the skies, especially those loyal men and women who had worked so long for American. I'd also like to announce that we have come to an agreement with US Airways to also join the LexAir fleet, effective in the months to come after the merger is approved—"

That's all that Lex needs to hear. He flips the television off and stares at his father. His secretary already has one foot out the door, proving again to Lex that he had hired a smart girl. "Care to explain this, Dad?"

"US Airways had been our biggest rival for American," his father says with a simple shrug. "Bringing them into the fold and out of competition was only natural. Tell me I don't need to explain this to you—"

"LexAir is _my _project! I'm the CEO!" Alexander nearly shouts, face and skin flushed red. His heart is pounding hard in his chest; he honestly is worried it might burst. "This is _my_company, and you cannot go behind my back!"

"Your company?" Lionel scoffs. "It was and still is _mine_, Lex. I may have named you CEO, but LexAir, LexCorp—everything you have still belongs to me." He hands Alexander his glass of scotch. "Take care not to forget your place again."

And just like that he is gone.

Alexander is silent for a long, drawn-out time, the glass perched in his hand. Then he lets out a shout, smashing the glass against his window, sending shards of glass and alcohol everywhere. A particularly large, jagged piece cuts against the pale skin of his wrist, and he quickly brings out a purple handkerchief to stop the bleeding. He picks up _The Prince _gingerly by the spine, still nursing his cut.

Machiavelli speaks up again, from across the years of dust and fire. "Never do an enemy a small injury, Alexander," he tells him, "for they are like a snake which is half-beaten, and it will strike back the first chance it gets."

He puts the book down again, and tells his secretary to call a press conference for that very afternoon with the same journalists who had spoken to Lionel. His father cannot lay claim to everything, and he especially cannot lay claim to that which is his and his alone.


	6. Part VI

**A/N: **Big chapter is _big_! We are now fully above 20K words, ladies and gents. I'm not sure whether to be terrified or excited, but things are definitely moving along now, and I'm in it for the long haul to take this story where it's going to go. Let me know how you think things are going! There are a couple of Spanish words in here due to a certain someone, so I have the translations at the end of the chapter for reference and such. Maybe at the end of this shindig, I will put up some extended scenes since I had to cut down on a couple of ideas to make this all one part.

Happy New Years, and thank you all again for all your feedback. Enjoy!

**Truth is not only stranger than fiction, it's more interesting.**

**William Randolph Hearst**

**sic transit gloria  
>chapter six<strong>

Marcus Luthor speeds through the streets of Metropolis in all-black as Ultraman, the Kryptonian symbol of his lost family replicated in a small silver medal above his heart on his black military jacket. His boots are whisper-quiet, treated to be fire-resistant when he runs as fast as he can; despite this, he's gone through six pairs already this year. His small black cape flutters behind him as he rights wrongs and stops evils, running through one street to stop an arsonist with his Arctic breath and another to take a bullet for a would-be robbery victim before taking the gun in his hands and smashing it to useless bits. He is careful not to linger too long in streetlights, and tries to stay to shadows as he continues his patrol.

He sprints up the side of his brother's new ninety-story building to listen for anyone else who may need his aid. Lex had agreed to let Marcus use the building as a lookout spot, and had even blacked out the windows on one side so that none of his workers could see a black blur running up the side of the building. Marcus had been grateful enough, but his brother had been even more standoffish than usual and had said it was no problem at all.

Lex was a good brother for all intents and purposes and certainly better than no brother at all. Marcus did love him, as any brother would, but Lex had once been against Ultraman too, sharing their father's opinion on it until he had asked for Marcus' rationale. "You can do almost anything you want, and you decide to do what? Be a hero? _Why_?" his brother had asked, and Marcus had just said he felt that he needed to do it, that it was why he was here, on Earth. Lex only smiled, and then joked that Marcus really ought to consider taking up priesthood, "though all the pretty girls in your bullpen would mourn."

Marcus wasn't so sure about that. Most days he knew how to project an aura of confidence and dependability and strength, lessons that his father had taught him from the moment he could walk. _Stand up straighter_, Lionel would always say. _Have pride in yourself and in what you do. And remember who you are_. "We are Luthor men," Lex would supply as an answer, and Marcus would finish: "The men of tomorrow."

He had always guessed that the Luthor confidence was what the girls really had paid attention to, even when he was young and only saw girls after classes at Excelsior were over.

Lori had once told him that the confidence, wherever it had come from, was one of her favorite things about him. "You walk like you know everything and everyone, like you could show me the world," she had said, with her hair shining like sea-foam, but she left just as quickly as she had arrived, in and out with the tide.

And then there had been nothing, had been no one else to stand tall for—until Lois Lane.

He hasn't stopped thinking about her since he gave her the ride back to her apartment, though he knew she was certainly trying to cut him from her life. He couldn't blame her. She wasn't stupid. She had seen headlines describing Lex's former girlfriends disappearing. She had probably noticed the way his adoptive mother's death had been handled quietly, as if she had a great shame tied to her corpse.

She had seen headlines of his father's brutal business tactics and had certainly spoken up about them. She had even written an editorial about the entire fiasco of who really came up with LexAir, a decision that had certainly soured Lionel's opinion of her even further, but one that slightly softened Lex's.

But he didn't feel like he was willing to let her go, even if he was sure the almost-kiss had been a complete misfire, even if he knew she was doing what was right, even if he had tried too much too soon. And while Lois wasn't cautious about getting stories, she certainly was choosy when it came to men she had dated. A quick check had shown a few flings among the privates of the U.S. military forces, but nothing serious. If he could only give himself a chance to tell her everything, to tell her why he couldn't let her go, why she truly needed to speak to Ultraman—why she truly needed to speak to _him_—

And that's when he hears her, on a helicopter to take her to some story across town, screaming and yelling at the pilot escorting her to _wake up, c'mon, please, wake up!_He moves as soon as he hears her, speeding across the river to land back on streets again.

When he gets to the _Planet_'s roof, he is careful to size up the situation in the shadows. The helicopter has caught onto a safety rail, but the pilot is out at the wheel and the helicopter is dangerously askew. Lois is barely restrained by her seatbelt, struggling to wake the pilot. There is no door to keep her within the helicopter, so she is soon swinging her legs desperately, trying to gain footing to get back inside. She loses a shoe when the helicopter lurches even further down, nearly vertical, and screams.

He carefully grips the helicopter's tail, trying to remain out of eyesight. Inch by excruciating inch, he brings the helicopter up, and soon he can see that Lois has firmly placed both of her feet onto the rooftop.

"_Ultraman_?" she asks the instant she has regained her footing, out of breath. "Is that you?"

He wants to do the heroic thing, say _yes_, it is him and make some quip about how flying is still the safest way to travel. He wants to help her go back down, and help her write her article, and let her know who he is, and he wants to take her high into the sky. And he wants to kiss her and hold her in his arms and hide with her in the clouds.

He wants a lot of things.

But now there are a thousand searchlights and police cars below the building, and he can't afford for her or for anyone to see his face. His ear on her heartbeat tells him she's still fine, if a little flustered, and it will have to be enough.

He speeds away to his office, grateful that Bria has gone home for the day. He changes quickly, though he takes a second longer than usual to adjust his cufflinks. He pours himself a glass of scotch, though he makes no move to drink it.

Part of him tells himself that he cannot let that happen again. Regardless of Lois seeing him or not, he came too close. If he can help it, he just has to keep an ear off her heartbeat and hope that she'll never have a close call with death again. It takes him two seconds to realize what an impossible idea that is. Changing Lois would be about as difficult as changing his father, perhaps even more so.

He has just finished telling Catherine Grant to cover the story instead when he realizes that what he can do is change _himself_. What he can do is devote himself more clearly to his cause, to his mission—to put the red pen aside and perhaps—

His phone rings and flashes: _Wayne, Bruce_.

_Jesus, not again_.

"Bruce, if you'll stop calling, I'll ask Miss Lane to your damn ball _right now_," Marcus snaps as he picks up the phone.

"That's my man! Thanks, Mark," Bruce says, a little too cheerily, and a throaty, female giggle in the background is his cue to hang up brusquely. Marcus downs his scotch all at once and runs downstairs.

In the empty bullpen, Lois is busy writing up an article, no doubt about Ultraman. She's smiling brightly as her fingers go as fast as they can, a pencil wedged in the French twist she's put her messy hair in. Her suit jacket is thrown over a nearby globe, and miraculously, both of her heels—though one is certainly much worse off than the other—are perched on her desk. At this moment, in her natural environment, he thinks she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

He wants to tell her this, but instead he asks a question: "That certainly was a close call, wasn't it, Miss Lane?"

"Mr. Luthor." She responds to his formality without skipping a beat, the pearls in her ears swinging. He walks to her, leaning against her desk. "It was. I'm lucky that Ultraman seems to keep an eye on me." He notices that despite her admiration of Ultraman, she doesn't sound too overjoyed about losing an assignment, even after a near-death experience.

"I'm sure." He allows himself a small smile. She starts typing again, but he clears his throat. "What are you doing on the twenty-ninth?"

"That's…a Saturday, right?" Lois consults her desk calendar, the lines across the twenty-ninth square completely blank. She scowls a little, and somehow even _that _looks charming.

"Nothing in particular. Why, do you have an assignment I need to know about?" And then, after another pause: "Sir?"

"_Marcus_," he corrects. "And you can consider it one." He purses his lips as Lois reaches for her coffee mug, emblazoned with lightning letters advertising a monster truck rally that happened four years ago. "Bruce Wayne is holding a charity ball in Gotham," he says, deciding it's best not to beat around what he wants this time. "I'm in need of a date."

Lois blanches completely in response, and it is all she can do to swallow her coffee. "I—well, I—I thought that maybe you'd prefer me to write something about it, or—?"

"I have another reporter on that." He perks up an eyebrow. "Unless you'd rather not?"

Lois knows that this threat includes denied access to the big names of three major cities and so she stands up, hand on her hip against her bright red trench coat. "I'll be there," she says confidently.

_That's the Lois I know_. Marcus smiles. "You'll see a little bonus in your paycheck next week, then," he adds, "so you can buy a proper dress for it."

Lois' eyes light up. "Anything I want?"

He smirks, knowing very well what he's agreeing to when he confirms: "Anything you want."

* * *

><p>Lois holds her breath one more time as she finishes zipping up her dress. She isn't one for vanity, but she has to admit that she's never looked better. A dark purple satin mermaid dress hugs her curves before billowing out at the bottom. One embellished strap decorates the bottom of her empire bust before swinging over her shoulder to hold the rest of her dress up. Her hair, loose and wavy, cascades down her back.<p>

"Marcus Luthor," Lois says with a little smirk, admiring her face in the mirror, "eat your heart out."

A small voice in the back of her head reminds her to be careful. Before that voice can speak up again, Lois grabs her clutch and saunters down the hallway and the stairs to find Marcus Luthor outside her apartment building, with a white tie and coattails, holding open the door to his Aston-Martin.

* * *

><p>Maybe it's the dress and maybe it's the makeup and maybe it's the fact that she's not scared stiff around him for once, but Lois finds herself laughing easier. About halfway through the drive to Gotham, Marcus tells her dinner will be with his father and brother at some place called the Sainte-Claire in the Gotham historical district, and the way he says it so stiffly makes Lois frown.<p>

"No, it's not," she says with a smile. "It's going to be somewhere else." She calls up to their chaffeur. "Can we turn left up here?"

Their detour eventually takes them to a drive-through '50s-style fast food place, where Lois cheerily orders double cheeseburgers, chili cheese fries, and milkshakes for them both. When she rolls down the window to take the food, she notices that the girl's eyes are extremely wide at recognizing Marcus. She just gives her a tip and a _thank you_, and they roll out of the driveway.

"Here," Lois says briskly, handing Marcus his bag after sorting through their food. "And this is for you too," she adds, handing him the strawberry shake. Strawberry is her usual favorite, but she figures her boss deserves something for getting her to this ball. She helps them lay out a makeshift picnic blanket made up of three layers of napkins.

His eyes widen as he takes bites and sips and then bigger bites and larger sips. Lois has to laugh at him in between bites of her fries. "Is this not part of the usual fare at the Luthor mansion?" she asks.

Marcus shakes his head no, and swallows a particularly large bite of cheeseburger. "There's always been a lot of imported food. Sometimes I don't think my father even knows the _meaning _of take-out."

Lois stops laughing just then. It's one thing to not know the taste of hamburgers, but now all she can think about is Marcus continually and obediently taking vitamins after a bland, sad, _healthy _dinner of raw spinach and unflavored fish. It's enough to make her want to weep.

"Remind me to tell you about this Chinese place on 5th and Williams," she says in between bites of fries. "They have the best dim sum you'll ever eat in the state. And their chow mein?" She kisses her fingers. "_Heaven_."

Marcus grants her a small smile. He looks into her eyes for a long time. And then he says, very softly, "I'd like that."

The Aston-Martin suddenly slows behind a few other cars, and Lois clears her throat and peers through the shaded windows to see what's happening. The Wayne Enterprises building, a glimmering architectural accomplishment in silver and chrome, sparkles before her. She sees Oliver Queen and Dinah Lance being greeted by Bruce Wayne and a petite, pretty woman with short dark hair and a bright green dress. Tony Stark and his assistant Pepper Potts follow.

"That girl from _Vanity Fair_ got at least _some_ recognition for that profile she did on Mr. Stark, right?" Lois inquires.

Marcus smiles. "Lois, don't make me have to tell you not to focus on work. We're here to have fun, you know."

Lois just rolls her eyes. "_Please_. Every moment is an opportunity, even if I'm not nearby a tape recorder. These people may be your close societal friends and all, but this is like a backstage pass for me."

He laughs openly then, and grabs her hand so she turns away from the window to look back at him. "You're something else, Lois Lane," he says.

"Thanks," she manages, and he looks down at her lips, and she almost doesn't care—when the Aston-Martin stops.

He smirks, and she makes a face. He keeps her hand in his as he steps out of the car first, holding the door open and giving her some assistance for a graceful landing. A small scattering of cameras flashes against them, and for a terrifying second, all Lois can see is white light.

Marcus is thankfully much better at this than she is, giving a small wave to the cameras and leading her through the foyer to where Bruce and his date stand. The green dress she's wearing is even more stunning in person, a one-shoulder satin gown the color of leaves in summer. Lois gives her a polite smile as the men say hello to each other, and the woman smiles back.

"Mark, good to see you again," Bruce says, hugging Marcus familiarly, as an old friend. He spies Lois out of the corner of his eye as the girl in the green dress leans in inquisitively to Marcus.

"And you must be Lois," Bruce says.

She holds out her hand, deciding not to care if she doesn't do a damn thing right. She's here, and that's what matters.

"The one and only," she says with a winning smile, sure she'd be more excited if Bruce hadn't thought so lowly of her work during that phone call last week. But he surprises her by giving her a hug too, and Marcus smiles as Lois struggles to keep up part of his weight. She pats him awkwardly on the shoulder before he lets her go.

"Thanks for bringing Mark out tonight," he says, and then turns to the girl in the green dress. "Marcus, Lois, may I present Lana Lang?"

Lana smiles so _charmingly_ that Lois is amazed she is actually real, and not a Barbie doll. She holds out her hand for a handshake from Lois, and Marcus kisses her hand demurely as she presents it to him. A slight blush appears in her cheeks.

"Thank you both for coming," she says. "It really does mean a lot to Bruce that you were able to be here tonight."

"No problem at all," Marcus says, and then turns to Bruce. "Have my father and brother arrived yet?"

"They're inside waiting for you," Bruce says, and another couple appears behind them. "We'll talk later," he says to Marcus and Lois, inviting them in with a gesture of his hand. "Enjoy."

Marcus takes Lois' arm in his, and she flashes a brilliant smile at him, still in shock that she's spoken to Bruce Wayne. She tells herself to calm down; if she remains star-struck she'll never get anyone to agree to an interview with her.

The inside of the building is just as stunning. Purple and gold banners three times Lois' height hang from the ceiling, and an antique chandelier that's probably worth more than everything she owns hangs delicately down, sending small rainbows across the room. Servers carry small _hors d'oeuvres _and glasses filled with champagne. Marcus takes two flutes deftly in his hand as a server passes by, and they clink their glasses together. Marcus takes a polite sip; Lois downs about half of her champagne before looking back up and realizing how small of a sip he had taken.

"Just relax," he tells her, and gives her arm a reassuring squeeze. "They're going to love you."

Lois is about to tell him she's pretty sure that his father and brother still hate her when he spots them in the crowd.

Lex's date, a beautiful brunette with a tight red dress that ends in a ruffle hem, is laughing openly at something, a champagne flute in her tan hand. Lionel is accompanied by none other than Senator Martha Clark in a royal blue sheath, and Lois briefly wonders how the hell Lionel was able to pull _that _one off. Marcus makes a beeline for them, and Lois knows that her worst nightmare is coming true. She tries to put a smile on her face.

"The prodigal son returns," Lex says, and Lois realizes he's much shorter than she thought he would be. "We missed you at the Sainte-Claire, Marcus. What happened?"

"We ran into a lot of traffic," Lois says at the same time that Marcus shrugs and says, "Miss Lane takes too long to get ready." She gives him a sideways look before turning back and putting on her best smile. "We're sorry we missed it," she says with a shrug.

"And you must be Miss Lane?" Lex inquires, receiving a nod from Marcus. She holds out her hand for a handshake, but he picks it up and kisses it. She feels briefly, suddenly cold. Her skin almost crawls. "I can see now why my brother spends so much time in the office. I wouldn't want to leave, either."

Lois feels like admitting that she can't do this, that she's sorry she ever tried, but instead she smiles demurely and says, "You're too kind." She hasn't played this game long, but she already hates it, and wishes she could tell Lex and Lionel both to go to hell where they belong.

"May I present my date, Lourdes Lucero?" Lex indicates the woman on his right, who goes with the formalities of saying hello to them.

"How nice to meet _el hermanito de Alejandro_," she says, her English heavily accented. "Almost as handsome as he is." Lex and Marcus laugh good-naturedly. "And Miss Lane. I like reading your editorials. They are—" She pauses for the right word. "—intriguing."

"Thank you," Lois says, hoping that Lourdes has paid her a compliment.

Lex notices someone else waving across the room for him, and he raises his champagne flute to everyone. "If you'll excuse me." He takes Lourdes' arm in his, who adds a quick _perdón_, and they walk off to the sound of her musical laughter, leaving Marcus and Lois with Lionel and Martha.

Lionel hugs his son openly, and Lois lets her hand fall away from his. "Take care not to be late again, son," he tells him, even as he pulls away. "A Luthor is many things, but tardy is not one of them."

"Yes, Father." Marcus sounds like a soldier in that moment, all trace of his earlier happiness gone. It reminds Lois of the men on the Army bases she grew up on, with their ramrod spines and flat lips. She doesn't like it, not at all.

"Miss Lane." When he says her name, she also finds herself taking Marcus' stance, though she does try to smile, at least a little. He kisses her cheek, and she feels even _more_ repulsed than when Lex had kissed her hand. "So good of you to join us."

"The pleasure's all mine," she says, knowing she's coming off as stiff and insincere, but it's all she can do to suppress her urge to throw her champagne in his face and call him a monster. She won't do that, not until she has evidence, and until that time comes, she needs to be patient.

"May I present Senator Martha Clark?" Lionel asks, and seeing her up close, Lois realizes that the senator has a regal air about her. Her auburn hair is long and flowing, accented with a fair amount of silver. Her lips are a blood red, and a small, tasteful American flag pin with precious stones hangs on her bolero's lapel.

"You must be Marcus," Martha says, and he leans down a little to accommodate the hug she gives him. "Lionel has told me so much about you. It's good work, what you're doing for the _Planet_."

"Thank you, Senator," Marcus says, and Lois likes the way he looks honestly humbled by her compliment.

"And Lois," Martha says, turning to her. Lois is surprised to get a hug, too. "I read your letter. You have good ideas. I'm going to give your argument for an anti-gridlock policy on Monday."

"_Mine_?" Lois is truly floored. "Wow. I—thank you, Senator. You don't need to; it was just a silly improvisation—"

"Which is a skill that's needed in congressional sessions these days," Martha says, and Lois realizes she sounds more than a little exhausted. The band starts to play an upbeat jazz song that catches the senator's attention, and Lionel kisses her hand and asks for a dance. Martha is demure and composed, and smiles and says yes, and they are left alone again.

Marcus holds out his own hand. "May I have this dance, Miss Lane?"

"Of course, Mr. Luthor," she says with a smile, setting her champagne glass down and letting him lead her out to the floor. The dance is not a style either of them is used to, and they trip over each other at first, trying to replicate some of the smoother moves they see on the floor.

Lex and Lourdes are completely engrossed in each other, though Lois notices she seems to be doing most of the dancing. She tries very hard to ignore the way that Martha is looking at Lionel, and worries for the senator, at least a little. Bruce holds up a hand in greeting when he sees Marcus and Lois, and they wave back.

They are just getting the hang of what the dance requires when Marcus is suddenly replaced by Bruce, and Lois frowns up at him as Marcus apologetically takes Lana's hands and starts to dance with her.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he says as he twirls them away from Marcus and Lana, and Lois can tell from his breath that he's much more than a little drunk. "I know you and Mark were having a good time. But I couldn't resist; that dress looks gorgeous on you."

"Thank you," Lois says, aware that the code of conduct would frown heavily on her stomping her high heel into Bruce's toes. He grips her waist a little tighter before testing his luck and openly groping her rear. Lois decides in that instant that societal rules can suck it, and she steps angrily on his foot with her five-inch heel. He winces in pain.

"Oh, no," she says, putting a hand over her mouth in fake surprise. "Mr. Wayne, I am _so _sorry."

"I'm okay, I'm all right," Bruce insists, waving her off, and Lana reappears and mouths an apology to Lois before supporting Bruce to a side table. Lois makes a disgusted face as Marcus comes back.

"What _does_ she see in that man?" she asks, looking up at him.

"Bruce is very—_outgoing_," Marcus says, settling on the right word for it. "Sometimes women find that charming, and sometimes they don't."

"Well, consider me in the 'don't' camp," Lois says, making another face. "I just feel bad for Lana, having to put up with _that _all night."

Marcus laughs. "From what she told me, she's dealt with _much _worse in France."

"Excuse me," comes the voice of Lionel Luthor. Lois closes her eyes, taking a deep breath before turning around. "May I have the pleasure?" he asks, and his hand is in front of Lois. She swallows her disgust and smiles prettily, nodding her assent while Marcus and Martha start to twirl past them.

"I was a bit surprised to see you here tonight," Lionel says. He looks down at her fingernails, and _tsk_s at their short length. She restrains the urge to roll her eyes.

"Are you still mad about the Sainte-Claire?" Lois sighs politely. "Look, sir, it was _my _fault, I took too long—"

"Don't bother lying to me, Miss Lane, you aren't _nearly_ as good at it as you think you are." Lionel's face is stoic and cold. His grip on her tightens, but she glares right back at him. "My son is on a path to success, one that doesn't allow for distractions and certainly doesn't include the likes of _you_. I will not have you be the one thing that derails him from the course I've kept him on."

"Marcus may be your son, but he's also an adult, _sir_," Lois snaps, pulling away from him, choosing to ignore his insults to her. How can he _dare_to be so public about this, especially when Marcus had a right to his own decisions? "If you think threatening me is going to do anything—"

"You wear your convictions right on your sleeve." He smiles and leads her back into the dance; she plays along with the motions, but is still sizing him up, trying to guess his next move.

"It's charming in its own way," he continues, "but it's also a mistake. I know _exactly _what you are trying to do." He scowls, and she grits her teeth.

"Do _not_ interfere with him any further, or you will soon find yourself sent out to a paper in the middle of nowhere—_if_ I decide that you can still have a job." He smirks at her, as if he holds all the cards, as if that's enough to stop her in her tracks. But he doesn't know her, not at all, and simple threats aren't enough to slow her down.

"I've worked hard to get to where I am, sir," she snaps back. "And I won't see you destroy it. Marcus and I will do what we like. I'm sorry if that disappoints you."

His face is red with anger, and he knows if they were not surrounded by the elite, he would probably hurt her, destroy her to let the world know who she dared to speak up against.

So he abandons her then, and Lois is left alone in the middle of the dance floor. She _knew _Lionel Luthor held no love in his heart for her, that he damn well never would, but to be so casual about her career, about everything she's worked for? Her father had warned her against fighting with a Luthor, but he had also told her it was equally foolish to make war with a Lane.

All of her earlier concerns about why Marcus Luthor is untouchable go out the window just then.

Martha laughs warmly at something Marcus says, taking vengeance out of Lois' mind for the briefest of seconds. Despite this, she knows that she has to leave, and _now_, before anything else happens. Before Lionel has a chance to wind his poison into Marcus' ears.

"Hope you said goodbye to everyone. We're leaving," she says when Marcus comes back. She starts leading him down a hallway to the exit.

"What?" Marcus is confused; the ball isn't even halfway over. "Lois, I thought you wanted to get an interview—"

"That can wait," Lois insists. With a shrug she adds: "I said hi to everyone. If they don't remember me, they're bigger idiots than I thought."

"Lois," Marcus starts, but she spins around and faces him, and the words fall from his mouth.

"You know that your father told me to never see you again," she snaps, and Marcus purses his lips.

"I knew what this would mean when I came here," Lois says confidently. "I'm not an idiot. I _know _what kind of world your family's in. But if your father thinks that he can be rid of me just by telling me to leave—" She laughs. "He has something else coming. It's war between us now. And I'm not going to apologize for this."

"Lois, I—" Marcus starts, but she interrupts him by grabbing him and pulling his lips down against hers. He is shocked for a second, but eventually tangles a hand in her hair as she wraps her arms around his shoulders. He wraps his other arm around her waist, bringing her up a little higher off the ground, their hearts beating against each other. He pulls away and places her on the ground.

She stares back up at him. "I tried to run away from it," she admits, "but I can't. This is what I want." She weaves her fingers in his. He's still warm, although the sun set long ago. "What about you? Is this what you want?"

Marcus stares at her for a long, endless minute. She knows now that she cannot, will not leave him alone to the monsters who had raised him. She will help him see a different way if it's the last thing she ever does. The darkness in his eyes that she had seen, that darkness that had haunted her—it was a cry for help, one she thinks she can answer.

"_Yes_," he says. And suddenly there is light in his eyes. "This is what I want."

And this time he's the one to kiss her.

* * *

><p>Later that night, at Lourdes Lucero's penthouse on the outskirts of Gotham, Lex Luthor is waiting in bed for her. He can hear the soft rustling of reapplied makeup, the stretch of stockings. "You're beautiful just the way you are. Come back to bed, <em>querida<em>," he calls to her, but she laughs at him.

"No, no," she says, and Lex hears a garter snap. "I must look _lindisima _for my Alexander."

When he was younger, he had hated his full name, his real name. His father had used it as a shadow to loom over his head, as if living up to Marcus and Ultraman wasn't enough of a challenge for him to face.

But Lourdes didn't use it as a threat, didn't use it as a reminder of all he could be. She looked at him and already saw Alexander the Great, already saw a man worthy of the conqueror's name, and insisted that she call him by his real name, his proper name.

And sometimes she used his name in her native tongue, _Alejandro_, and the way it rolled from her lips always made his pulse quicken.

Lionel had not been quite so charmed by her. While he had told Lex she was beautiful, she was apparently too charming. "There's no such thing, Dad," Alexander had told him, and Lourdes had been a joy all night, a welcome distraction from the tumultuous happenings at LexAir and his father's ridiculous stunt.

His own press conference had softened some damage, and Lois Lane—to her credit—had written a decent defense of his right to the company. But Lionel's hold still remained on his son, on Lourdes, on his company—on _everything_.

She comes back out in a red corset and black stockings, and she laughs when he grabs her, and she sighs when he touches her, and soon all he can see or care about is her.

It is this moment, with Lourdes in his arms and her hair in his hands, when he decides to change his life.

It is this moment, with Lourdes' voice in his ears and her legs wrapped around him, when he decides he's had enough.

Sophocles is suddenly in his head, unbidden, not called upon. "Alexander," he says, over the sound of Lourdes' laughter, "fortune cannot aid those who do nothing."

It is this moment, with Lourdes all around him and her mouth on his, when he decides that Lionel Luthor needs to die.

* * *

><p><strong>Spanish translations<br>**_el hermanito de Alejandro: _Alexander's little brother  
><em>perdón: <em>pardon, excuse me, sorry  
><em>querida:<em> darling, dearest, sweetheart  
><em>lindisima:<em> very pretty


	7. Part VII

**A/N:**Thank you all again so much for your support! It means the world to me when I'm writing up the next chapter. Thanks for sticking with me thusfar! We are past 25,000 words and chugging right along. This chapter is going to be more than a little introspective and a little light on Lois' point of view, but since crazy things are going down in chapter 8, she needs to be on the sideline for a bit. Thank you in advance for your critique.

**The public have an insatiable need to know everything, except that which is worth knowing.**

**Oscar Wilde**

**sic transit gloria  
>chapter seven<strong>

Lionel Luthor is still in the white tie and coattails dress code after the Waynes' ball is over and he's seen Senator Clark off on her red-eye back to Washington, D.C. His office is cold save for the fire that one of the maids just started, and his customary bedtime brandy is still untouched in his crystal glass. He's too preoccupied to even pay mind to the work he promised himself he'd do tonight or even his reading; he is too busy considering the failures of both his sons.

Failures who had come to the ball that night dressed in taffeta and silk, in purple and red, with shining eyes and smiles. Failures that had wrapped themselves tightly and stubbornly around his sons, both of them sirens in the sea, promising them everything they thought they didn't have—failures named Lois Lane and Lourdes Lucero.

They were certainly both beautiful enough for his sons, but all that Byronic nonsense about beauty as a virtue had never much appealed to Lionel. And beautiful women were not as rare as young men thought they were; he had surely raised his sons to look past a woman's beauty and spy any personality flaws innate in her nature. Miss Lane was simply too inquisitive and pushy to be tolerated; she would never adjust to a status quo when she could change it instead, and she simply did not and _would_ not fit into the world of the Luthor men. But where Miss Lane was brash and open, Miss Lucero was joyous and graceful at the Sainte-Claire—and _much _too charming. She tried too hard to come across as selfless and brave, as optimistic and sincere, and the idea that Lex—who always was such a brooding sort—could have ever caught the eye of a girl like Lourdes made her incredibly suspicious.

He decides to drink the brandy after all; it's a nineteenth-century bottle, and it would be a tragedy to let it go to waste. As he nurses the drink he wonders how his sons—the men who were supposed to be the men of tomorrow—have fallen so fast. When he was young, still trapped in the Suicide Slums, he had heard a Chinese proverb that tiger fathers only beget tiger sons. And he had only had sons—Lex first, the only child of his by blood, and then Marcus, the Traveler that the Veritas Society had predicted, brimming with potential, and begging to be reshaped in Lionel's image.

The other Veritas members certainly hadn't been happy at first with Lionel's decision to take the child for his own. Virgil Swann had been the most stubborn, insisting that the child would need protection far above what any single mortal man could provide. "Then I would say it's a good thing that I'm a Luthor, and not just a mortal man," Lionel had responded, and after some persuasion—persuasion that others might call _coercion_—the company fell silent rather than questioning Lionel's claim on raising the Traveler. And so it was Lionel that saw the Traveler's ship in the middle of all the meteors raining down on Smallville, and it was Lionel that took the child into his arms and called him _my son_.

He brought the child home to Lillian and named him Marcus, after Marcus Aurelius, a Roman emperor and philosopher. "And it's such a nice name," Lillian had said in that faraway tired voice of hers, "and won't it be nice for Lex to have a little brother?"

But Lionel knew the instant that he had insisted on Marcus that it was more than just another allusion, an equally grand name to match Lex's namesake, Alexander the Great. He had saddled the Traveler with a name that reminded him that he would _always _hold a debt to Lionel and to the Luthor family.

"Good morning. And it is good, isn't it? For what does Marcus Aurelius tell us?" he would ask the child every morning as soon as he could talk.

As a child, the words gave him difficulty, but soon he could say it strongly, on command, like a soldier. "When you arise in the morning," he would remind Lionel, and Lex, and himself, "think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive—to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love."

It was their prayer, one of their many mantras, and while he used it to forge Marcus' mind to be loyal to him, he also had a special side project to ensure his son's strength would defer before him too.

He systematically bought parcel after parcel of Smallville land starting right after Marcus' arrival shower in 1989, and by 1996 he owned nearly everything save for the historical district along the town's main street. And when people asked what was so important about a tiny little creamed corn town in the middle of the heartland, he simply said that Smallville—where his relocated mansion was—was a special place to him, and he wanted as much of it as he could have. By 2001, he owned the entire town, with most of the remaining residents relocating to some other zip code area. He could have cared less.

He had crews tear recklessly through fields and houses, upturning the earth, searching everywhere for the meteor rock that had ushered Marcus into the atmosphere. His team of scientists called it _kryptonite_, after the name of Marcus' home planet, Krypton.

Lionel's team soon realized that the kryptonite had no measurable effect, good or bad, on humans, and the radiation that was supposedly life-threatening was actually nothing of the sort.

Marcus could not have been more than four the first time Lionel brought it into his room, curious about its effects on his alien son. He placed the first chunk of rock he had ever discovered next to his son's sleeping head and saw his veins harden and turn a sickly green, his skin suddenly break out into a feverish sweat, and his eyes pinch closed in pain.

When he was finally able to summon the strength to open his mouth, he only let out weak screams for Lillian. Screams for him. _Mother, Father, make it stop, stop it,_ _please!_

Lionel had stolen from the room then, and told his team about what had happened.

"I'm sure if I had kept it up, I would've done him serious harm. Perhaps even killed him," he added as an afterthought, weighing the rock in his hand. It was no more than a pound, the size of a paperweight, and yet—

"Needless to say, nobody can know about this."

So they took the kryptonite back into the lab and experimented on it, trying to discover if Marcus could develop immunity to it. Throughout his son's youth they found nothing, but they created multiple variants of kryptonite, using different processes to change the colors and their effects on Marcus. Red kryptonite made him lose all inhibitions, and they decided after one day of observing the effects that it would be best never to speak of it again. Black split his Kryptonian personality, Kal-El, from his usual self, and after immense difficulty to bring the two back together, it joined the red kryptonite in an unbreakable vault. Silver inspired fear and hallucinations, and after he had nearly killed Alexander in a haze, it too joined the unbreakable vault. Blue stripped him of his powers but restored them when removed: a helpful tactic to quell any teenage rebellion. Gold hypothetically would strip him of his powers _forever_, and there was not much use in having a Traveler who was just as human as everyone else, so Lionel had locked that variant away too.

Besides using the blue kryptonite for discipline, Lionel had only changed one more feature of his mansion: below Marcus' bedroom in the mansion, separated from him only by a thin retractable lead lining, a chamber stored all of the green kryptonite Lionel had ever found. There were emerald towers upon crystals upon rocks that could freeze him where he stood. Harden his veins. Stop his heart.

He wonders just then: if Miss Lane isn't a coward—and he suspects she isn't—and she continues to see his son, what other way could he get rid of her then? If she didn't listen to him, his men could find her—shoot some liquefied green rock into her veins—put a piece of it over her heart—blast her with all the radiation she can stand—then she would lose what appeal she had and her spell would be broken. Marcus wouldn't be able to come within five feet of her without collapsing, without losing his breath, without risking exposure of his identity as Ultraman.

But then again, perhaps he needn't go through such overly dramatic, allusive lengths. It has, after all, been some time since Lillian, since his boys had had a mother. Martha Clark could no longer bear him any sons: a fact he's grateful for; step-sibling rivalry is among the worst that exists. But she is flexible—her time in the nation's capitol has made her so. She is smart and resourceful and brave, her hair just as brilliant as Lillian's, but she carries all the strength Lillian had once had. And if time in the Senate hadn't dulled her yet, then she could prove a fine ally in the battle for his sons, and urge them to defer to their father, and make the mansion feel like a home again.

He weighs all the possibilities in his hands. "I will save you, my sons," he whispers, determined not to see them fall, determined to save them and by extension save his legacy—by extension save himself.

"Luthor men," he whispers then, barely audible. "We are the men of tomorrow."

* * *

><p>Marcus Luthor is holding Lois Lane back in her bedroom, his arms wrapped around her waist, and she is warm in sleep beside him, her weight a comforting feeling against him. He has an ear tethered to her heartbeat, and the constant thumping is soothing and soft like a lullaby.<p>

When they had left the ball and driven away, there had been maybe only five minutes on the entire drive when her lips had not been on his. She had been even more beautiful than usual in her taffeta and curls and her determination and strength. She knew what she had wanted and she took it and he _loved _it. It was all of her fire and determination in the world to get her stories turned on _him _and he had been pleasantly surprised by it, to say the very least.

They had barely been able to unlock her front door before they were at each other again. Marcus had never felt a passion like this, one that consumed him body and soul, one that left him vulnerable and seeing only her, only Lois—and not minding it at all.

But then just as quickly as it came, it stopped. She'd broken away and looked at him, suddenly curious, skeptical, and asked that they go no further tonight. His father raised him to be many things, and a gentleman was one of them, so he nodded his agreement and held her close to him until she fell asleep.

He then realizes that she had never told him he could stay in her bed, and she does have a sizable couch outside her kitchen, so he kisses her forehead and whispers, "Good night, Miss Lane."

He picks a spare purple blanket off the floor and starts making his way back to the couch, where he takes off his jacket, shirt, and shoes, and settles in for sleep.

But it does not come. Instead, he's thinking a million things at once. Has he ruined what he and Lois had by crossing a professional line? What will he do if his family discovers how he truly feels? What if people at the _Planet _discover it?

And then of course there's the Ultraman problem.

Thinking about that alone suddenly makes him very tired. His track record with papers, with Ultraman, with women isn't exactly the best. What if he messes things up again? Messes things up with Lois, with his identity as Metropolis' go-to vigilante, with his duties as Lionel Luthor's son—messes up everything he's supposed to be? He tries to shove them out of his mind, but they take root, and he's suddenly stuck thinking about time he'd rather forget, when he was just out of journalism school.

Working for the _New York Times _had been his first job. He had started at the bottom, insistent that he started alongside everyone else. His father hadn't approved, saying that Marcus should have used his position of power to land somewhere further up, but Marcus had disagreed, knowing that people would hate him for sidestepping parts of the process. And for a while it looked like he had been right—he made friends in the basement, people who had come from nothing or next to nothing and had worked hard to go to college for the opportunity to sweat in the basement during New York summers.

Ron Troupe was a co-worker that he admired in particular, a self-starter like his father, and while Ron had been skeptical about accepting him at first, Marcus showed great empathy and understanding for their situation, and soon they were friends. They covered stories together and talked about everything from the cuter girls in the bullpen to leads on stories to philosophy in cafés after deadline. They were well on their way to becoming an unstoppable team.

And then a few weeks later they were fired, an order from the owner coming down the building and cutting the basement open, not caring what spilled out. Everyone who was fired, even Ron, had all walked out, but Marcus refused to. He went upstairs and informed the editor about how hard these people had worked, how much they deserved their opportunities, how wrong the editor was.

_Orders are orders_ was all the editor said, and reminded him that Marcus too was also out of a job and he didn't want to see his face around the paper again. "You're scum, just like that no-good family of yours," he said with a scowl, and Marcus left the room with no pity in his heart, taking care of this problem the only way his father had ever showed him how.

It took him less than an hour to find blackmail material: the editor's membership in a radical fascist movement, which of course was directly contrary to the _Times_' heavy liberal leanings. Marcus had poured every photo and piece of information he could find on the editor's desk. "I know what you are," he'd told him, giving him a list of his friends' names. "I know what you believe in, and I know it could ruin you. I'm sure the owner would be _very_ interested to hear about this."

"I _can't _hire back twenty people," the editor had said, tossing the paper dismissively back to him.

Marcus hesitated for less than a second. "Ron and me."

The editor shook his head. "No."

"You'll just hire _me _back, then," Marcus said firmly. "Or maybe you'd want my father to hear about this."

The editor narrowed his eyes, and knew he was trapped. "Done."

And so Marcus found himself employed again, and every so often he'd remind the editor of what he knew and who he could tell, and was handed a promotion or a pay raise or a labeled parking space—but Ron couldn't come back. And he hated Marcus for it, for violating the principles they had once talked excitedly about in cafés, and he cut him from his life in disgust. But Lionel had been proud of him for finally "thinking like a Luthor," and affirmed Marcus' belief that what he did was necessary.

By the time he'd become editor for the world section of the newspaper within a year, Marcus had gotten careless about his blackmail material, and someone else had discovered it and been honorable with it. The editor was fired and promptly replaced with someone with a squeaky-clean record—someone he couldn't manipulate, no matter how hard he tried. At Lionel's urging, he looked for another job.

He found one quickly—as an editor for the local section of the _San Francisco Chronicle_. It paid much better than his former position since the City by the Bay was so expensive, but Marcus didn't care for the money. People were more relaxed in San Francisco, easygoing and friendly, and he made friends even more easily here than he had in New York. There were a few girls with flowers in their hair to have dinner with on the Embarcadero every so often—something nice after Lori had left, but nothing permanent. So he threw himself into his work, and formatted crime story after police blotter summary after crime story, one day after another, until he simply couldn't take it anymore. _Something _had to be done.

That was the beginning of Ultraman, though he didn't have the name or the uniform or the identity yet. He didn't have anything but a will and a way, and by his fourth month in San Francisco, he was patrolling the foggy streets at night, careful to keep his face hidden and his stature unreadable. He'd only been doing it about two months when he heard someone being robbed south of Market Street on an otherwise uneventful Sunday night, and raced down the narrow back streets to stop it.

The victim was a balding, heavyset man who couldn't have been more than fifty, and his assailant was much younger and stronger. Marcus used the heat of his eyes to melt the gun into a warped piece of useless metal, burning the assailant's hand and sending him screaming into the night. The would-be victim's heart was beating too fast and irregularly for Marcus to simply leave, though, and so he approached the man and asked him if he was okay.

That was his first mistake. He hadn't been mindful of the street lamp then, and the victim saw his face. And even worse—he _recognized _him.

"_You_! You're Marcus Luthor," he said in between gasps, and Marcus' blood ran cold. "Lionel's son. Your picture—it's in the_ Chronicle_."

Marcus hadn't done much but stiffen up, his eyes wide and terrified. The man only laughed as he looked at the melted gun. "What kind of freak show did your dad turn you into, huh?"

That set off a nerve. Marcus ripped the streetlight from the sidewalk and bent it into a useless tangle of steel and glass, much to the horror of the man he'd saved, who definitely wasn't laughing anymore. Marcus' eyes glowed red with heat, and he set the window behind the man on fire. He started whimpering pathetically, and Marcus gripped him by his neck, holding him aloft in the air.

"If you tell _anyone _about what you saw tonight," he'd growled, his eyes still red with heat, "I will _destroy _you. Your job, your house, your family: I will level everything you care about." He tightened his grip on the man's throat even further. "And when you're all that's left, I'm going to leave you a charred stain on the side of this building. Understood?"

The man managed to choke out a weak _yes_ before Marcus let him fall carelessly on the ground, and he scampered away, sobbing and heaving. After about a minute, Marcus realized his mistakes, necessary as they were, and extinguished the fire the old-fashioned way—with an extinguisher in glass. His Arctic breath would only cast suspicion, and he knew too late that he needed to be careful. He also tossed the streetlight carelessly into the frigid waters of the Bay, and had to listen to more than a few odd theories about the hole in the sidewalk when he came to work the next day.

But Marcus soon realized that San Francisco had lost its appeal in the same way New York had. He couldn't go south of Market anymore, not after what happened, and he hadn't told anyone about the man, not even his father or brother. After a foggy, miserable year of formatting crime stories together, the news came out that his father had purchased the _Planet_, and it was a huge relief. He then had a truly untouchable position as editor-in-chief, and when one of the basement reporters came up with the name _Ultraman_, his identity as a vigilante solidified, was made more permanent. And then there's Lois—unstoppable, stubborn, determined, fearless, and beautiful—who is everything he had ever wanted.

But New York and San Francisco had fallen apart in seconds because of what he'd done, because of what his father had told him to do, because of his obedience.

What if Metropolis came apart, too? Was he to lose Lois? Lose Ultraman?

Lose himself?

Finally, reluctantly, his head heavy with questions, he lets sleep take him. _Maybe things will make more sense in the morning_, he tells himself, though even as he closes his eyes, he knows it's a lie.

* * *

><p>Alexander Luthor is wide awake while the rest of the world, even Lourdes by his side, sleeps. He wakes her and kisses her. "Where are you going?" she asks sleepily, her eyes still slightly bloodshot from the previous night and her makeup all smudged. She is still beautiful; he wonders if there was a time where she wasn't enchanting.<p>

"Nowhere, angel," he says softly, and he kisses her again before taking his leave, his Rolls-Royce a white blur on the freeway that spins its way out of Gotham.

He's slept for maybe two hours after coming back to Lourdes' penthouse, but his mind feels awake, sharp as it's ever been. He comes to the mansion in Smallville and sees his father sleeping, unarmed, unprotected. For a second he is sorely tempted to slit his throat right there, but he reminds himself that he cannot do so just yet. It would be sneaky, dishonest, lacking finesse and power. No—when he _does_ kill his father—which will be sooner than anyone could know—it has to be done carefully.

He has a plan and then some: has worked out multiple scenarios and potential conflicts in his head. But one thing always remains the same: he will be in LuthorCorp working alongside his father, both of them buried in mountains of paperwork, the whole building empty save for the two of them. And he will tell his father how he has tired of his games, how he is a grown man and nobody's slave, not even his father's. How he was raised in shadows, the shadows of his father and his brother—and how Lionel will die in Alexander's own shadow.

But there are still so many factors that can come in, so many other possibilities that can ruin his chances, and at the top of the list is his brother, Marcus. Dressed in his military jacket with eyes like fire and a righteousness that he picked up somewhere, a righteousness he shouldn't have—he's a walking threat, and Lionel had not been able to properly subdue him despite his arsenal of resources.

"Your brother is one of the most powerful beings on Earth," Lionel had told him once, when he was a teenager, in the lead-lined rooms holding the only known weakness of his adopted brother. "I've raised him to remember where his loyalties lie, but should he forget—"

He had pressed a button and Alexander had seen the rocks shine in a myriad of brilliant colors. Radiated pieces of Marcus' home world, Krypton, the LuthorCorp scientists had named the meteor rock kryptonite. Under the right circumstances, it was the Achilles' heel in his brother's otherwise impenetrable armor.

"—remind him of his place," his father had said simply, and Alexander had nodded.

And now he intends to teach Marcus his place, to show him he cannot save everyone—and that he will not be able to save his father. He travels down to the basement and waits as the camera scans his eye, hand, and face before letting him in. He takes a chunk of kryptonite, its green glow shining on his skin.

Nothing can come in his path.

Tomorrow Alexander seizes his destiny. Tomorrow he will kill his father, and crush Marcus beneath his heel. He _will_ be the Übermensch his father had always wanted, rising from the shadows.

And tomorrow Alexander will show him why a strong man should never beget stronger sons.


	8. Part VIII

**A/N: **My thanks once again for all your support thusfar! I apologize sincerely for the extreme delay between this chapter and the last; real life kind of crept up on me! I've also hit 30,000 words with this chapter, and I have a pretty good (?) feeling it may be as long as a novel (50,000!) by the time I'm done! Thanks again for accompanying me on this crazy ride, and thanks in advance for your feedback!

**All of us who professionally use the mass media are the shapers of society. We can vulgarize that society. We can brutalize it. Or we can help lift it onto a higher level.**

**William Bernbach**

**sic transit gloria  
>chapter eight<strong>

The day after the Gotham charity ball, Lois Lane wakes up alone and in her own Metropolis apartment, as if nothing had happened the previous night. After trying to protest the fact that she's awake, she slowly falls out of her bed and notices her dress on the floor. She tries to brush the wrinkles out of the taffeta without much success before giving up and hanging it back up in her closet, half-heartedly wondering if she could find an excuse to wear it again. She scrambles through the hangers until she finds a robe and wraps it around herself before shuffling to the kitchen in search of breakfast—and coffee. _Lots_of coffee.

The blinds are open for whatever reason and she has to strain her eyes before noticing Marcus Luthor on the couch—her date, her boss, her whatever—with a large green apple and a knife in his hand and a glass of orange juice on the table. It was probably the healthiest thing he could find in her kitchen; Lois isn't exactly a well-balanced breakfast kind of girl. She squints at him in the light of the early sun glaring through her window.

"Excuse me, miss," he says after a while, pretending not to know her. "I was wondering if you've seen my date. She's about five-foot-eight, brown eyes, brown hair, looks great in purple?"

Lois lets out a mocking _ha ha _in response before deciding to ignore him and go into the kitchen. She finds a couple of leftover maple donuts and a Red Bull, and drops them on the living room table next to the paper plate Marcus has set his apple on.

He looks at her breakfast in disbelief, as if she's elected to eat glass. "You're eating _that_?"

"Breakfast of champions," she says with pride, and they clink their drinks together. Lois can already feel the caffeine hitting her blood stream, though she won't be fully conscious for several minutes.

It's at this time, out of the corner of her eye, that she notices Marcus is shirtless. Instead of his typical tie, jacket, and shirt combo, she's seeing bare skin. She's never been shy about her appreciation for the male body, which she counts as one positive aspect of her time on Army bases, but he's still her boss, and still a Luthor, and—still someone she's decided to be with, to save him from all that.

But then a possibility she's not sure she's ready for pops into her head. Even if he was out here and not in her bed, they could have—well, you know—and maybe they _did_—they had both certainly _wanted_to, she remembered that much from the night before—

"We didn't—" she says suddenly, unable to describe what she's thinking. Marcus looks confused. She gestures wildly with her hands and face, praying that she won't have to elaborate. Eventually he catches on, and he has to laugh, in his frustratingly untouchable way.

"No, Lois, we didn't." He squeezes her hand comfortingly. He's _so_warm, though it is still early, and the sun can't have been up more than half an hour. Her body had been stiff, but at his assurance, she relaxes.

"Oh, thank God." She slumps back into her chair before she notices the way he's looking at her. "No offense," she assures him.

He laughs again, more good-natured this time. "None taken." Then he purses his lips, obviously with thoughts of his own.

"Lois, I did want to talk to you though—about us?"

She nods. She decides she's prepared for anything from a re-establishment of their professional distance to a relationship. She knows the latter will be much harder, but she'll take it if it means she has a chance of saving him from the monsters he calls his family.

"I'd like to keep seeing you," he says, and the way he says it is so earnest and kind Lois wonders how he had ever survived growing up in that authoritarian mansion his father owns. "It's been a long time for me, and right now—I think you're what I need."

It's all she can do to hold herself together and not break down. For once, she thinks, someone needs me. The men she had kissed and then some on the Army bases had never really _needed _her, or if they had they had certainly never told her.

"And you may not need me in the same way, but I feel like you want to keep seeing me too." He pauses, and looks like he's remembering that he doesn't want to do her thinking for her. "Is that true?"

She nods. "Yes. But—"

"But what?"

She bites her lip. "People _can't_know. We'll already have your family putting pressure on us. There's no need for us to be quite as—"

"Public," he finishes for her. It's not a question. She nods.

She hates secrets, especially since she's in the business of exposing them. But the rumors that Cat Grant had spread a few months back had been really damaging—and at that point they weren't even true. Marcus had been able to save their reputations once, but he may not be able to do so this time around, especially if the tabloid writers get their hands on the idea of Marcus Luthor dating one of his employees.

"It'll be all right," she says with a shrug. "I don't really need those big fancy dates a lot of people go on about. I just—want to be with you."

He smiles, all sunshine and optimism for a brief second, and leans in to kiss her. For better or worse, she's in this now, and she's not going to leave as long as she can help it.

* * *

><p>Marcus soon figures out that <em>saying<em> a relationship will be secret and actually making an effort to _keep_it secret are two different things. Even on the first day they try to co-exist with their secret, it's maddening to see Lois and not be able to kiss her whenever he wants. It's maddening to see fellow newspapermen flirting with her and not being able to do something about it, though luckily Lois seems comfortable telling them that they don't have a snowball's chance in hell with her.

He throws himself further into his work as Ultraman, if only to keep himself preoccupied with people who aren't called Lois Lane. He still keeps an ear on her heartbeat, but he allows the other sounds in the city to override it sometimes, and both Lionel and Lex call him before lunch to encourage him to stop intervening in the world so much and to focus on his work at the paper. But it's hard to listen to their advice when he reviews all the editorials Lois has written about Ultraman in her folder, praising him for using his powers for the greater good—and also encouraging him to reveal his identity.

One of her editorials about a particularly impressive strategy he had to dismantle a bomb in an elevator a few weeks back ends with a call for Ultraman to speak to her. "_I cannot promise to speak for the entire city_," she writes, "_but I know that I am so proud of what Ultraman does for the city of Metropolis. Our brave men and women who keep the city safe every day cannot possibly be there for everything, and he fills in the gaps to help make Metropolis a better place to live. I encourage him to contact me and to let me interview him, so that the people of Metropolis can better understand all the good that he does for us_."

People had teased her for it after it was published, and even now, they're still saying she's in love with him and that's why the rest of the men in the bullpen don't stand a chance with her. She just shrugs and says they wouldn't understand.

He realizes now what needs to be done.

He speeds through the bullpen, leaving the note taped to her computer screen. When she comes back from a sandwich shop a few blocks away, he hides in a nearby phone booth and watches as she opens the note and reads it. As she does, a smile spreads across her face. He's seen girls who are getting engaged to the loves of their lives look less excited than she does right now.

_Miss Lane—_

_I've been keeping an eye on the editorials that you've been writing about me. I've decided to take you up on your offer to help me speak to the people of Metropolis._

_I cannot meet you face-to-face, but if you come to the Café de Flore on 7th & Lincoln, there's a phone booth I'd be able to contact you from. 8 pm tonight._

_I hope I'll see you there._

_Sincerely,  
>A friend<em>

She jumps into the air happily, and when she lands, apologizes to Catherine Grant for upsetting the photo of her son. She races up to the elevator, and he wonders for a brief second if she's headed up to tell him what's happened. He races up the stairs, and manages to look relaxed and nonplussed in his chair by the time Lois bursts into his office. She's glowing with happiness, cheeks flushed and slightly out of breath.

"He read it! He's going to talk to me tonight!" She drops the note happily on his desk, her excitement barely contained.

"Tonight?" He perks an eyebrow as he reads the familiar words. "He moves fast, literally and figuratively." He allows himself a smirk. "Should I be jealous?"

Lois tries to laugh it off, though he notices the blush in her cheeks is back. "I just—I didn't think he'd get back to me so soon," she admits, her hands twitching as she fidgets with them. "This could really _mean _something, you know?"

He smiles and tries not to think about how strange this is, to talk to her as himself and not himself at the same time. If she knew—knew who Ultraman was—would she still admire him? Or would she see only the sins of his family name, the mark of_ Luthor_, and would her ideal hero be ruined?

"Of course," is all he says instead.

"So I was thinking I could take you to that Chinese place tomorrow instead?" Lois asks apologetically.

"Sure," he responds nonchalantly, though he'd been looking forward to being alone with her tonight, and she gives him a thank-you kiss on his cheek—chaste, but warm.

"You're great," she tells him, though he can't help but feel a little put out. "I'll talk to you later. I need to draft up more questions."

And she leaves him hanging there with a sudden, throbbing headache, wondering if he's done the right thing, wondering if he can handle this—wondering if she thinks Ultraman is a better man than him.

* * *

><p>Her café latte is cold and her biscotti hard, but it's even worse than that. It's eight-thirty. She could kill him for doing this to her—regardless of his potential invulnerability. The phone booth is unoccupied, and no one has called it. No one's even stepped <em>past<em> it. She checks her watch again and double-checks with the pretty French girl behind the counter. _Eight-thirty_, the girl says sadly, thinking Lois has been stood up on a date, but it is _so_much worse than that.

"'Eight o'clock,' he says, 'eight o'clock'," she says sadly as she goes back to her table, trying to pull herself together. This certainly isn't the first time someone's contacted her for a story and then left her waiting, but this time was different. This was _Ultraman_, for God's sake, and it was supposed to change her career forever.

"Some 'friend,'" she sneers, and after taking a bite of her biscotti, she puts it away. She had been too excited to eat dinner, but now she's not even hungry. Nothing could quite kill her appetite like a story being dashed to pieces before deadline.

Her cell phone vibrates and she looks down at it to see a text from her cousin Chloe Sullivan, who works for the _Star City Register_. "_In Metropolis tonight. Assignment filed. Drinks at the Ace of Clubs?_"

Lois decides she doesn't want this evening to be a total waste, so she hails a taxi and starts the driver on the way back to her apartment. "_Be there in an hour_," she responds, and looks in vain at the sky, hoping to see Ultraman's large black shadow or hear the rush of him speeding past her—and seeing nothing.

* * *

><p>Lionel Luthor has gotten used to the figurative weight of the world shifting under his hands. The office he's commandeered from his son in the L-shaped building outside of the city is outfitted with a touch-screen technology that improved on the latest prototype from Stark Industries. It's a little flashy for Lionel's taste, but it's certainly helpful to be able to close deals in the city and abroad at the same time, to check on shipments across the Atlantic and Pacific, to keep tabs on the people whose power he needs to check and balance.<p>

He checks the clock at the top of the user interface, which reads _7:51 p.m._ in bright numbers. He thinks he hears the faint _whirr _of a machine shutting down, but everything seems normal in his office. Deciding he needs a break, he fixes himself a single-malt scotch—the only drink he's cared to make as long as he can remember—and holds it deftly in his hand.

Less than a minute later, his door opens and Lex makes his entrance. He is dressed completely in white; it flatters him, but also makes him look unblemished, a lie that Lionel knows will never be true.

"Done so soon, Lex?" he inquires casually. He's just moved around a few things that should ensure that his son stays up for the rest of the night to fix. Lionel supposes two more all-nighters this month should suit Lex just fine if he's ever to become a good CEO. "If you aren't feeling up to the task, perhaps you should get some rest. You know what they say about burning the candle at both ends—trite, but true."

"Not tonight, Dad," Lex responds, just as casually. Lionel notices a slight tremor in his son's right hand, and for a while he thinks it may be nervousness, but he hasn't given his son any excuse to be nervous since he had been ten years old. "I have more important things to worry about."

Lionel fixes his mouth in a hard, humorless line. "If you're referring to the—_lovely _Miss Lucero," he says with thinly veiled disdain, "then—"

His sentence stops flat as Lex reveals his gun, and he stays stoic as his son approaches him, keeping his weapon fixed on his father's heart.

"Lex, please," Lionel says in a blasé way, as if the gun isn't there, as if he has nothing to fear. "Do you ever truly _think _about what you do?"

"I finally am," Alexander responds, putting his gun against his father's balmy forehead. "I'm _finally _thinking, Dad. And do you know what I've realized? You haven't given me nearly enough credit for what I've done."

Lionel remains silent. Best to see where this is going, he supposes. Best not to go somewhere Lex isn't ready to go.

"'_Behold the superman, for man is something to overcome_,'" Alexander says grandly, as if he is on stage, displaying his mind to all the world. "Nietzsche was right, Dad. Man _is_ something to overcome. And you raised me to transcend the weaknesses of humanity. But no matter how much I excelled—no matter how many times I brought the world to its knees—it was _never _enough for you."

Lionel allows himself a smirk. "It never was, was it?"

Lex falters for the briefest of moments. _What does he want me to do? Lie to him? Plead for my life? _Lionel Luthor is many things; a coward certainly isn't one of them.

Alexander squares himself more firmly against his father, who is only looking up at him with cold, dark eyes. "Because I would never be Marcus, would I? Every day you looked at me and hoped I'd wake up with his gifts, with his powers. But that was never going to happen, was it? You could only hope that one day Marcus would have my same resolve, my same _ambition_—but he never would."

He cocks his gun, a sound that reverberates across his office.

"I was raised in your shadow, and in Marcus'. And now you will die in mine. And one day—no one will even remember your name."

For a long while, there is nothing but silence in the office, silence and the gun pointed at Lionel and the sweat beading at the top of Lex's head.

And then there is a sudden outburst of _laughter_, which Lionel knows is the last thing Lex expected from him. The gun shakes slightly in his son's hands; his eyes widen slightly.

"I had hoped this day would come," Lionel admits to Lex after he is done laughing. The gun is still not as steady as it should be if his son truly wants to kill him, though most of the shaking is done. "I pushed you and pushed you, and for a long time, I thought you wouldn't be able to know what you had to do. But now—now I know I have done _everything _I've needed to do."

He sees confusion flash across Lex's face for a moment, and he sighs, slightly disappointed.

"Allow me to explain," he says, impatient, ready to Lex to catch up, ready for him to know what he has done. "I have always told you what separates Luthors from other men. And that is?"

"_Only the fittest survive_," Lex says slowly. Before this day, he would always say it with a slight roll of his eyes. He knew it by rote the way other people knew the Hail Mary or the Our Father; years of reiteration had dulled its edges in his mind when they should have remained sharp. But he can see the edge coming back to his son's words. Perhaps it is not too late after all._  
><em>  
>"Yes," Lionel says, strengthened again by the spoken presence of his mantra. "<em>Only the fittest survive<em>." He takes a pause, then smiles, almost serenely, at his son. "Tell me why you and your brother never met your grandparents."

"They died in a fire in the Suicide Slums," Lex replies. He still doesn't _see_, still doesn't understand. For all he has done right, he has failed to learn his last lesson, and it is imperative that he knows before Lionel takes that bullet. "And you said you would honor their memory by becoming all you could become."

"And did the police ever discover who set that apartment on fire? Did they ever bring my parents' killer to justice?"

"The police didn't care about two immigrants from the slums, so they—" Lex responds, starting to recite what had been told to him since he was old enough to ask after his grandparents. And then he stops. He keeps his face under control; if he was any weaker, he'd be gaping at Lionel. "It was _you_. You killed your parents."

"I did," Lionel says with an air of nonchalance, as if he is discussing the weather or the results of a sports match. "I did because they were unfit to survive. They were weak. By the time I was fifteen, I knew I was already stronger than the both of them put together. I would do everything they wished they could do, and I would do it in a way they could only dream of." He prompts Lex again; it is time for his son to take another test, but this will be one of his last. "And so I destroyed them not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Because…?"

"…_only the fittest survive_." Lex has found a new reverence for those words now, and hearing the solemn tone of his son's voice makes Lionel smile.

"...yes, I _have _been cruel to you, Alexander," he admits with that same air of nonchalance, though his son's eyes glint at the sound of his full name, his true name. "I do not deny that I have. But everything I have done—pushing you, stealing from you, ruining you, throwing you off-balance, questioning your every decision and every move—I have done for the sake of making you a true Luthor. I have done it to make you strong, to recognize that the future is yours. And that it is_ you _who must seize it."

Questions are still written across Alexander's pale face, questions that start and end in the same place.

"You are wondering about Marcus," Lionel states. It is not a question. Alexander nods.

"I will admit that I had very high hopes for your Traveler brother," Lionel starts, and with a sigh of distaste, he notices that the ice in his drink has melted. "He held within himself potential to end all potential." He sighs then, thinking of his newspaperman son at the top of the _Planet_, with Miss Lane's waist in his soft hand, a complete waste of promise. "But despite all he can do, he will never possess the will of a Luthor. And for that, he will never be a true leader. He will never be the man that tomorrow needs. You were right—he will never have your resolve. And he will never have your ambition."

Lionel can see the truth spreading across Alexander's face. His time is drawing to a close. He must end the lesson now or leave his legacy incomplete.

"No matter if you curse me or bless me after I have gone, Alexander, you must know that I have left you three gifts," he says, well aware that these are the last words he shall ever say to his son. He walks towards his son, towards the gun, stops in front of it to feel the pressure on his heart.

"The first gift," he tells Alexander, "is my company. I have seen it prosper under my watch, but soon only your name will remain. And you shall go even further than I have because of my second gift to you: sheer _willpower_, forged of iron and steel, which I have pushed into you since before you were born. And with that will, you shall forge the mightiest weapon I can bestow to you; a weapon that cannot be defeated and will help you reshape the world in your image—in the image of _Luthor_."

He restrains himself from laughing, but lets the next statement drop like a pin against the floor: "And that weapon is your brother."

The light of knowledge dawns on Alexander's face, and Lionel presses a kiss against his son's forehead, father and son separated by the two ends of a gun. "You will only need to _speak_, my son," he tells him, "and the world will follow."

The clock tower from the city strikes then, strikes eight times in a row, but over the sound of the tower comes the sudden telltale _whoosh_ to inform the Luthor men they are not alone. Marcus bursts in with sudden self-righteousness and indignation, and after assessing the situation for a half-second, jumps to the worst conclusion. Before he can even shout out a strained "Dad!" Alexander has already shot him.

Marcus falls to the floor with a painful groan, a hand struggling to serve as a tourniquet over his suddenly bloody shoulder. He is rendered useless, rendered _mortal_, helpless to stop what must happen. Before Alexander ushers him towards the window, Lionel sees a telltale blue glow that lets him know that Alexander has forged a bullet lined with blue kryptonite to break his brother's Kryptonian skin; a small green flash and a resulting cry from Marcus informs Lionel that the bullet has a one-two punch, a retractable layer, a line tethering Marcus to his brother.

It is more than he could have ever hoped for.

And when Alexander shoots the window behind him and shoots him in the shoulder, sending Lionel hurtling ninety stories down to the marble steps below, he has time to think of the man his son will become: a man the entire world will fear, a man that will speak and send continents running, a man that is everything a Luthor should be.


End file.
